The Erotic Adventures of Brian and Curt
by Velvetbabe
Summary: Brian and Curt steal away and get up to no good at all.  Mucho graphic slash, romance, fighting, shopping, dancing, jealousy, rages, and all sortsa good stuff.
1. Adrift and Spasming

**THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF BRIAN AND CURT**

_This is a work of fiction based lovingly on characters created by director Todd Haynes from his 1998 film Velvet Goldmine, which starred Jonathan Rhys Myers as Brian Slade, and Ewan McGregor as Curt Wild. Obviously I claim no copyright. The film was a love letter to the early 1970's musical phenomenom known as Glam Rock. Brian is based in part on that-era David Bowie, while Curt is based on that-era Iggy Pop (and partly Lou Reed)._

_**If you consider this a warning:** the story features loads and loads of slash, ie graphic gay (and even a bit of straight) sex and other things such as mentions of prior drug use/addiction, sexual assault, sex involving minors, and more. _

_Unlike many or perhaps most slash stories, this one is based on same-sex characters who, in the film itself, actually engage in a (very brief) romantic and sexual relationship, ie I didn't wish this idea into being. The reason for writing this story was to lovingly (and majorly) explore and expand on it, since the relationship in the film ends way too fucking abruptly. There was simply too much delicious potential to let it die there. _

_Thank you for reading. _

_Review (please.)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1, Adrift and Spasming<strong>

* * *

><p>THAT BELT BUCKLE.<p>

That demonic, satanic, mephistophelean shiny piece of metal affixed to the front of those leather trousers, with it's curved perfectly rounded edge and precise, pinpoint placement, being driven up and down, up and down, slower and slower, then fastfastfastfastfast, making me completely bloody mental. This was perhaps the simplest and yet most embarrassingly evil of erotic acts I've been, um, I won't say 'a part of', rather 'subjected to'.

I catch sight of us in the full length mirror to my left. There's me, writhing about, pressed firmly into the back of the same door he had kicked shut not 2 minutes before (with a wall shaking slam of course), naked except for my pale blue satin trousers.

Pinned high above my head, he holds my arms in place.

I'm meanwhile squirming and pleading like a bleeding, blithering pansy.

In the mirror I'm being mauled by the most filthily stunning dirty-blonde creature, who is in possession of the wickedest set of heavily lidded "fuck me" eyes the color of seafoam.

The same ones which minutes before had bore into me as he made his way towards this room, wordlessly willing me to follow.

The creature, also topless, is wearing an exquisitely form fitting pair of black leather hip huggers, while making this deliciously lewd, obscenely beautiful forward hip-grinding motion, which is particularly impressive when viewed from this sideways angle. (Somewhere in the corner of my brain I have the vague thought that this would make spectacular porn.)

Oh, the creature? Only Curt Fucking Wild …

An inch inside the room, both of us shaking from weeks of pent up_Want_, we had lunged at each other, impatient and hungry, our mouthes mashed together sloppily, inhaling each other like tonic, consuming each other's scent and sweat.

My hand quite naturally slid to his zipper and to my surprise, he batted it away. When my hand returned, he did it again, whispering into my neck: "Not yet", and panting out an explanation: "Between out there (meaning the orgy du jour) and in here, I mean … I've been hard for like a fucking hour. You'd better leave it a minute, okay?"

Had I been allowed the room, I would have staggered about and collapsed. Two little phrases, but the control and direction inherent in them, and the deliciously erotic promise they held … phew!

Hardly used to being told what to do, however, I could help myself not, and reached down with both hands this time, in an attempt to quickly unclasp the Holy Buckle.

Before I knew it, my arms were pinned high.

"You don't listen, do you?" he whispered, nose to nose, semi-annoyed.

Somewhere in our struggles, he had inadvertently brushed against me with the Buckle, and noticing it's immediate impact and potential for torment, figured this was to be my 'punishment'.

All of it is exceedingly delicious, and this seemingly dominant thing is not a side of Curt I am at all unhappy to discover, (though when I think about it, it makes perfect sense), but here we are, finally alone in my bedroom, completely free to fuck upside down hanging from the chandelier, devour each other like wild beasts, and instead we've got this teenage dry hump going? (Lewd and lovely as it may be.)

I just wasn't going to have it, I just wasn't, and I fought him, not in a showy, 'let's do a pretend S&M scene', but honest to god struggles to break free of his hold. To no avail. The lad was strong. Those compact muscles, that wiry frame. I wanted to be annoyed, I really did. Instead I was wildly turned on. Plus, you try being pissy with a writhing, thrusting, exceedingly aroused Curt Wild in your face; that perfect jaw, mangled mane, smudged khol eyes … shapely pecs, hard nipples, beautiful flat stomach … shall I go on?

Still, I could at least _try_ to make my case.

"Curt–"

He pressed in closer, kissed me forcefully, and did about 17 superfast upstrokes with that relentless, eerily precise soft curve of the Buckle, which kept and kept and kept hitting it's target. I was panting like a racehorse now, right on the edge.

"What, my impatient little queen?"

The neurons in my brain had sputtered and now weren't firing at all.

Gasp, gasp. "_Nothing_–"

_His_ impatient little queen! Suddenly in the middle of this dizzying arousal-fog, I had a clear but entirely ridiculous vision: Curt and I out furniture shopping. He, who didn't want to go in the first place ("I don't fucking need any goddam furniture."), now insistent upon an oversized traditional tufted black leather club chair, all cigar-y and masculine, while I'm tittering over the loveseat with the giant pastel flowers.

And then a second, more beautiful, completely unridiculous vision: Curt in the morning, grumpy, stubbly, hair a fright, threadbare bathrobe half on and half off (always), eating his usual morning fare: 5 cigarettes and 4 cups of black coffee. ("Goddamn fucking sick of this fag-ass tea shit.")

I sense a slight shift, and I am brought out of my reverie when, over my head, both wrists are transferred into the sole custody of his left hand, whilst the right has dropped to my top button. I would have squeeled out in delight, had the deepest kiss thus far not immediately ensued, less rushed but much more intense, coupled with a soft palm running over and along the straining satin.

I squirm and fidget towards him. Really, there's only so much a boy can take.

Mercifully, he unzips and reaches inward … only to smirk out a small breathy laugh.

"_What _?"

"Um, you are _really_ fucking hard, Mr er, Demon."

"Fuck off. What did you expect, arsehole?"

He begins a moderate upward stroke which quickly silences me, and looks down, watching the motion beneath heavy lids.

He waits a beat, and then speaks haltingly in that same soft, witheringly sexy gravel-tone:

"You're just really, uh … swollen and … smooth …and, uh … _beautiful_–"

He lands with a thud at my feet, knees on the carpet, sliding the satin down.

_Oh my._

I blink hard, gulp harder, and manage to look. I am well swollen indeed, extremely so, and, now, oh GOD his lips are hovering; I can feel soft breath- christ I surely cannot bear this. What happens next, though, is the moment I want to freeze forever, that I know I will replay in my head one billion times:

He is eying the tip, which is glistening with the ooze of pre-ejaculate, when he briefly, simply, and rather matter of factly gives it a single, mouth-open, full, flat _lick_. Quite obviously done out of sheer curiosity and wonder, not at all for effect or because you happen to be looking.

Tres magnifique.

It is here, this moment, where I fall in love with him. Because it so perfectly encapsulates, I would come to realize, the true essence of Curt: at once, and in his twisted fashion, something unbearably, demonically sensual, and yet so breathtakingly boyish, innocent, and beautiful that you can't get past it. Curt, as himself, as he can't ever help but be: primal, unaffected, genuine.

But there is no time for awestruck, starry-eyed blithering … for I am quickly disappearing behind his lips.

He, of course, throws himself completely into it, head and mouth swirling wildly, slipping me deep, tongue agitating and igniting all that it touches.

In the mirror, I see my fingers entwine in that messy thatch of unwashed hair, my eyes rolling backwards, head turning in agony, begging.

"ohgod … Curt! … oh_fuck_ … ohfuck_please_ …"

His mouth is indescribably, dizzyingly sweettightsoftwarmWET. Tears run freely down my cheeks.

And then, tragically soon, I am aware of my neck tipping backward, lids fluttering, mind going black, the wave approaching, holding, … and then swoosh-CRASH! 200 storey building out of the sky. I'm unsteady, swaying on my feet, stupid and blind and dumb and drunk with over-arousal, lust and love, adrift and spasming.

What I am next vaguely aware of, seemingly long moments later but I can't be sure, is the sensation of being stripped of my trousers and turned round in place, the door cool against my outstretched hands, and him moving within me. He is rough and impatient as I had hoped, as I had pictured, urgent and hungry, and it is extraordinarily difficult to hold myself still for him, despite the firm grasp he has of my hips.

His grip tightens and he pulls me wider. I rebalance myself against the door, helpless to find an anchor on this smooth flat surface (damned door handle- too bloody low). He thrusts with his full length, alternating with harder/deeper, harder/much deeper, and then shallow/fastfastfastfastfast and I'm completely fucking losing my mind; I can't keep track and have given up hope of catching my breath.

The sight in my friend, the mirror, is, once again, scorching hot, yet stunningly beautiful: planted feet and parted lips resting where my shoulder meets my neck, pale skin, flushed and slightly damp, that especially gorgeous outward curved arch of his lower spine, rolling and turning inward, and our bodies echoing softly on impact.

* * *

><p>As a musician, I feel I would be entirely remiss if I did not mention audio. The sound of a fully aroused Curt Wild, fucking, is exactly what you dream of when you beat off, only far, far better. Not loud, but rather a deep, back of the throat, hoarse, crazily sexy raspy grunt, uttered straight into your neck, that is guaranteed to make you want to pull your fucking eyes out. Actually I take it back: You might think you can imagine it, but really, you can't.<p>

* * *

><p>I know without looking that I'm rock hard. Mind you, a 5 minute turn around is not something that has happened to me since I was 13.<p>

Another shift as he wraps his arms round my waist, brushes against me, and then, oh no, oh holy mother of god, he is, yes he fucking well is … Gripped firmly in his now rapidly moving right hand, I know, down to the last fiber of my being (god help me- it's true), that I WILL NOT survive this.

His thrusts come harder still, and I redouble my efforts to not be plunged through the wall. He will exactly match the pace of his glorious, stupendous hand, and it will feel so completely and perfectly_right_, like he is fucking a deep hole, clean through to the other side of my body, and it will be all I can do to not scream and cry out to the gods in mirth and joy … and then he will differ the pace, throwing me off guard mentally and physically, until I catch up and begin to feel that ahh yes, _this_ in fact is the Full-Through Torso Fuck I've been waiting for all of my entire life … only to have it change yet again. I begin to feel a rising sense of frustration until it suddenly hits me: this is the perfect metaphor for Curt's love of odd, discordant musical time signatures. At another point I may laugh uproariously at the irony of my 'plight', however at the moment, I am not altogether here. I am a small helpless form who has been undergoing a profound, wholesale sexual pummeling.

A few minutes along, when the telltale burning tingle has begun to rise from my loins, when I'm teetering on the razor edge of that indescribably delicious 'just before' sensation, he, the creature, speaks. Into my ear. Two words.

"Fuck me."

I feel a sharp stab in my throat as the breath catapults outward.

"_Fuck me _!"

Oh no. Oh holy bleeding _Christ_ … I'm, I'm … imploding, eyes roll completely away and back … and, and, it hits, tidal wave, bloody tsunami, and … I'm coming. Rolling once, again, again, again.

In the midst of this mind splitting euphoria, I am somehow aware of his body going rigid behind me. There is a breathtakingly beautiful raspy shuddering cry … and, then, oh holy mother of the gods, my insides fill with the warmth of his seed.

We collapse together into the door, his sweaty arms wrapped round my waist, panting and gasping like fools.

Fuck me, indeed, and fuck me hard, if Curt Wild and I haven't both just come like absolute bloody gangbusters.

Behind me, the panting eventually lessens. He kisses my ear and pulls me limply towards the bed, where we collapse in a sticky breathless heap. I manage to roll towards him. I bury my face in his chest, and we drift quickly away.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's notes …<strong>_

- Admissions:

1) It would probably hurt having a metal belt buckle, no matter how fetching, repeatedly pushed into your privates, so it's probably not terribly realistic, but that's the wonderful world of make believe for ya.

2) Curt's hair throughout this blog is repeatedly referred to as "blonde" when in reality the Curt I prefer in the film is the one earlier in the film, who hasn't yet bleached his hair, and that guy's hair is light brown _but … _it's going to lighten in the sun. This is a bit of my Ewan McGregor preference showing (Ewan plays Curt in the film)- his hair color changes often and seems to really be impacted by the sun and can be called blonde then, or dirty blonde. Yum.

3) Licking pre-ejaculate from the tip of a penis is hardly "innocent" but that's my failing in writing that bit. Some day I will improve that passage. The idea was supposed to be that Curt did it out of basic curiosity regarding taste, and not to be "sexy", and therein lies the innocence. Of course, it's an inherently sensual and erotic thing to do and yet that is _not _supposed to be why Curt, in that moment, did it. It's supposed to be almost matter of fact for him. How Brian would know any of this … I don't know. Let's just say he's very in tune with Curt by this point, _very _focused on him, they are of like mind, and so, he senses it, and is moved by it and by what this says about Curt.

- General notes:

As a reminder, and this is really stupid but … this is supposed to be 1972, long before the AIDS epidemic, and so condoms are not used by these men, ever. Lube however, is, in fact, this may be the only blog entry in which lube is not referenced.

These boys have sex and like to fall asleep directly after which is both realistic and not, extremely, I admit. I guess I just like to end a scene with a bit of intensity and also with release. It's almost like talking would be a moot point- they've communicated all they need to.


	2. Nonstop Passionate Sex

Despite my exhaustion, I sleep fitfully, and at some point awaken. I'm on my back, and find him laying on his side facing me, elbow bent, head in hand, fingering my nipple.

His lids are heavy, but eyes are bright and clear. He slides a hand to my face and moves in close, looking at my mouth, studying it.

I raise my hand to his hair, and pull him closer. My god I want him. Our mouthes meet, tongues intertwine and explore, softly at first, then before long, furiously, heads turning side to side.

He climbs over me and leans back in a crouch between my knees, spreading lube over himself. (Let me tell you, if there is ever a sight that will make you sit up and pay attention, this is bloody well _it_.) I grab the bottle from him and squirt some into my palm. I bat his hand away. It is my first sight of his glorious cock, and needless to say, I do not find it wanting. It is, in fact a thing of stupendous beauty to me- strong, thick, and smooth. More than anything at this moment, I want it in my mouth, but he obviously has other ideas.

I reach for him, spread the warm oil along the tip, and move slowly downward. On the return trip I grasp more firmly, and twist my palm round the head. His reaction is immediate: eyes shut slowly, lips part, exhaling softly. I tighten my grip and increase the pace, so incredibly turned on to feel him harden in my very hand, to watch him respond with gulping and laboured breaths. (Whoever dismisses hand jobs has not ever touched Curt Wild.)

But alas, he does have other ideas. He grabs my hands and leans forward, pressing me back into the mattress, kissing bruisingly hard and deep, rubbing and rubbing his oily cock into mine. I squirm and gasp beneath him and right when I'm at the point of passing out, he releases me, sits back up into a crouch, and reaches for my ankles.

In a single fluid motion, he pushes against the bottoms of my feet and slowly leans his weight forward. My knees bend in kind until they are next to my ears.

I had no idea I was quite this flexible.

He leans further and my feet slip over his shoulders. We pant softly into each other's hair.

I can feel the tip resting exactly in place.

Fuck I want him in me, _now_. I attempt to thrust my hips upward but discover I'm bent too firmly in half and have no wiggle room; it will all be up to him. (Dear me.)

He wastes no time and plunges inward, just, with a breathy grunt. My heart catches in my throat. Bloody hell, why does it hurt so much more than before? Was I in that much of a fog? Is it that I'm split the way that I am? Or are my nerve endings simply frayed and raw from the day's arousal-overload? Either way, I realize: I don't fucking care. He feels enormous and he's going to fuck my brains out. What part of this do I have a problem with?

Second and third-teeth gritting pushes forward, and he is deeply, tightly embedded. His mouth closes over mine and we pant through a long, particularly intensive, messy kiss before he retreats and thrusts inward, once, twice, three times, hard.

Fuck! The wet friction, the pressure, that unbearably delicious pull and push against my insides is just mild blowingly, head-spinningly wonderful.

He buries his face in my hair and bears down again, harder, deeper still, relentless, and I'm practically screaming. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve times, hard, fast, ungently, and I'm forced to plant my hands against the wall behind me or risk concussion or skull fracture. Fifteen, twenty times, hips a blur- and at about the same time I'm hyperventilating and baffling as to where he could possibly have gotten the energy, I realize I'm coming. With no direct contact.

Moments later he follows suit and I'm treated to a thing of unimaginable beauty: Curt's damp, flushed face, up close, wet strands of hair plastered to his neck, as he climaxes. That lovely strong chin tilts up, eyes squeeze shut, mouth hangs open, and he momentarily freezes. I cannot get this image out of my mind. He looks to be in agony, he looks to be suffering, a pent up, wound up ball of fiery, combustible tension … and then he erupts and shouts out a great hoarse cry, an exquisitely beautiful thing on it's own, … and a look of complete calm and bliss passes over him.

He leans up, releases my legs, and collapses into my neck, panting hard. We soon drift off.

* * *

><p>Some time later I am awakened with a sudden terribly urgent need to pee, and slip quietly as I can from the bed, not wanting to disturb him. I carefully shut the loo door and am momentarily blinded by the overhead light. I blink hard and as I relieve myself, glance down at my own member.<p>

"_You_ have been in bloody goddam Curt Wild's mouth, haven't you?" I hear myself think, in conversation with my own cock. "Lucky prick." I chuckle softly.

I catch myself in the mirror and am stunned. Here I am, a famous, wealthy rock star, owner of several homes, 2 limos and a staff of 12, and I'm indistinguishable from any bedraggled hobo in the street. It looks as though I've been beaten up in fact; certainly every muscle in my body would attest to this. Half of my hair is plastered to me and the rest is sticking straight out and upward, my eyes are bloodshot and grey, my lips look swollen and stretched out, somehow even the hairs of my eyebrows are pointing in the wrong direction. My mouth is extraordinarily foul tasting, not to mention, phew, the whiff I've just gotten of myself. OH my.

I blink hard. The whole evening, the whole fucking thing, has it _actually_happened? Have I _actually_ had the most urgent, insane, intensely passionate sex of my entire life … _with_ the very man who, for the last several odd weeks has had me twisted up into the world's most painful, impossibly elaborate knots of desire and hunger and all-out need, the man who has singlehandedly taught me the meaning of the word _want_ … to the point where sleep has absolutely become a thing of the past, where literally everything else has been pushed from my mind, where every moment, awake and asleep, is spent in a dream, daydream, or wet dream starring Him? Where I cannot bloody well get myself to think straight for 2 stupid minutes?

Is _HE_ really on the other side of that door?

Don't get too excited, my brain says. I mean, be real; does he look like a bloke who sticks around? Now that he's had you, do you think he won't bolt and move on to the next eager little number? You think he's gonna stop at _you _?

But I love him, I blurt back to my brain, shocked at my own self admission.

Don't be a bloody idiot, it says to me.

I slump. I want to argue back with myself, I want to defend my own position, but weariness overtakes me, or at least, that's what I tell myself.

I flip off the light switch, quietly open the door and step into the pitch black of the room, at least until my eyes adjust and I can see well enough to find my way over to the bed.

From three feet away I make out his form. He's kneeling back in a crouch at the base of the mattress, facing my direction … oh god, oh christ, oh sweet jesus … yes, he's … he's slowly going over himself, oily hard-on very evident even in the darkness. My knees don't have time to buckle for he's grabbed me roughly by the back of the neck, and is kissing me very hard and very deep. Somewhere far off in my mind I panic, 'my mouth reeks!', but he clearly doesn't care, for I'm being sucked straight past his lips, into his face, it seems.

Just at the point where my head is spinning off it's axis, where I'm about to pass out both from arousal and oxygen deprivation, he releases me and pushes me quite firmly down onto the bed where I land with a double-bounce on my behind.

Quickly, before I have time to process what's happened, he crawls toward me, takes hold of my body and unceremoniously flips me over as if I weigh nothing, and then jerks me upward, quite ungently by the hips, onto all fours. Oh god. Oh holy bleeding christ, I'm shaking and sweating and panting, and nothing's even bloody happened yet.

Immediately he curls his body into mine and I feel the warmth of his skin over me, surrounding me, lips pressing into my neck, and then the exhalation of strained breath as … the fat, rounded head pushes, without hesitation, straight inward.

I gasp and call out as the withering pain shoots through me, right up my torso. Why? Why in all bloody hell must it hurt so much?

Mercifully he waits. We pant out into the room and, despite the pain, a feeling of supreme bliss and well-being washes over me. I feel almost high, and it hits me: this is how I want to remain, forever. I want to freeze this moment solid- Curt behind me, in me, his body over mine, holding me close, possessing me, craving my body, needing it, taking it.

He kisses my ear, his hips pull back and I grit my teeth and inhale. He holds himself steady for a moment, and then _plunges_ inward, forcing the breath from my lungs and grunting out loud. It's the sweetest sound the world has ever known.

Again he pulls back, quicker this time, holding for a beat, for a few unbearable, anticipatory seconds, which are brought to a resounding close with a hard, forward, breath-stuttering thrust.

We each cry out into the room.

Immediately then, he locks into a quite firm, repetitive rhythm and we gasp and grunt in unison as he forces himself deeper and deeper, gripping and re-gripping my hips which are slippery from sweat, thrusting with abandon, with mad speed, despite the exhaustion I'm sure he must be feeling.

Oh god, I cannot catch my breath. The pain has passed, having been replaced with this terrible desperate thirst, this wanton, blinding need that is at once, unimaginably sweet and dirty and awful and filthy and delicious. My entire being- brain, nervous system, arteries, lungs, heart, has been taken over and swallowed whole by this furious pummeling, this impassioned, forcible ramming, there is no other way to put it, of the small, highly sensitive opening in my body.

Make no mistake, I _am_ in Bottom Heaven, a particularly ethereal, dizzyingly sweet version of it, in case anyone is wondering …

And fuck if the lad doesn't somehow find the strength to … speed up? I'm crying and coughing and spitting out his name, muttering secrets, spewing the contents of my soul, hanging and hanging on, to the wall, to the blanket, to the air around me, gasping for dear life, drowning in the feeling, in literal disbelief at just how insanely wonderful and right and good it all is.

Curt, will you please, please take immediate ownership of my body for the rest of your life? Here are the keys …

At some point in the fog of this whole matter there is a sudden sharp stillness … and then his strained breathy cry as I am once again flooded with a rush of warm fluid, the feeling and realization of which thrills and excites me no end … followed immediately by the weary collapse of his sopping wet form into my sweat soaked back. After a beat, I am pulled down from my knees and gently turned to face him. In the darkness, he kisses me softly between breaths.

The sensations in me at this moment are embarrassing to admit, and hard to describe. I want only to hold him, and yet at the same time, I feel an overpowering desire to crawl to his feet and bow, in worship, in grateful thanks. Unfortunately, however, I've been made so bloody rock-hard by it all, that at the same time, I can think of nothing else. The irrational part of my brain wants him immediately inside me again, which of course is impossible and won't solve the problem if it hasn't already.

Down he plops, down my body … and in the darkness I can just make out the top of that dirty blonde head as it lowers and …

I inhale sharply, in a near-hiss as I'm enveloped quite firmly by those magical, velvet-smooth lips.

Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh CHRIST, it can't be. I'm _too_ hard, I'm _too_ excited, if that's possible, and … I feel terrible pangs of guilt. He's exhausted, he's done enough, I can't ask him to …

I reach for him. I whisper.

"Curt–"

He ignores me and goes into a succession of rapid double and triple head bobs, silencing me quick.

I gulp hard and absently mutter his name. I shut my eyes and … mother of jesus, that sensational, artful tongue … oh my beautiful sweet lad … my beautiful demonic/angel boy … In my mind I'm chuckling in disbelief: "Come on, Curt, suck me like you _mean_ it!" I dig my fingers into his scalp, into the strands of soft, unwashed, damp hair, whispering unedited, unrestrained filth, writhing slowly beneath him, beneath the wonder and torture of that glorious, stupendous mouth as it works and works and works me over, and very quickly, finishes me off.

The tingle rises upward, shooting through my thighs and belly and spleen, straight up into my brain and cerebral cortex. My fog-shrouded head instantly quits spinning- like a hand to a rotating globe, like a pin to a helium balloon, and I explode in orgasm, only vaguely aware that I'm yet again coming in his mouth. Curt, I'm quite sure by now, wouldn't have it any other way.

He climbs upward, next to me, and I hold him close, dipping my weary, gasping head into the well of his neck. We drift off in mutual and total exhaustion.


	3. Away  Someplace

Once again I sleep fitfully, and at some point in the night awaken and sense an empty bed. I panic momentarily, but then, squinting, eventually make out his form, standing by the window, curtains drawn back, in a cloud of smoke.

The light from the street softly illuminates my path. I lay gentle hands on his back, and kiss the top of his shoulder overwhelmed with an array of feelings: wonder, disbelief, admiration, a not small sense of pride. But mostly I feel, to a frightening degree, a sort of violence of love. Which scares the bleeding shit out of me. This is Curt Wild, my muse, my confidante and friend, but also a man who has now completely obliterated me sexually. I know a dividing line when I see one.

Which is all well and good as the Americans say, but absolutely, positively none of this means … he feels one iota the same.

* * *

><p>He takes a drag and passes it back to me, eyes looking drawn, which is worrying, or might it be that he is simply knackered? Despite the fact that I don't smoke, I accept it, pull on it, and pass it back, a tad nervous, wanting to speak, not wanting to. His eyes drift absently over the street.<p>

I run a hand tentatively down his arm.

"You okay?"

He takes another drag, and exhales.

"Ya, just couldn't sleep." His voice is soft and worn.

I plant my chin on his shoulder and pretend to watch the flickering street lamps, eyes turned instead, watching him.

It strikes me that he really does possess the most glorious ragged beauty, in fact at this point I'm pretty well convinced he is _the_ pinnacle of male beauty. He looks amazing, fit, younger than his 25 years and I momentarily imagine him as a boy. And then I remember. The bright, inquisitive child, the brilliant reckless son, violated and betrayed by his brother and then, unthinkably, abandoned by his family to a state mental institution where he would endure more than a year of barbaric shock treatment.

Absolutely incredible. I see the skinny, terrified boy struggling and fighting as he is forcibly strapped down, the rubber bit jammed between his teeth, the awful journey down the hall to the room with the bright lights.

I run a hand down over my stomach which has twisted up into tight, cramped knots. Then it occurs to me: I have known of these same stories for several weeks now, and they have never previously caused me physical pain.

Bloody hell, I _am_ in love.

* * *

><p>He takes another drag, inhales it deep, protrudes his lower lip, and blows the smoke straight upward without tilting his head. How can even this be so bloody sexy?<p>

"Brian."

I'm watching the smoke trail out of his mouth, mesmerized.

"Hmm?"

"This whole," his index finger makes a circle in the air. "this whole fucked up trip, this, like, make believe world surrounding you …"

He turns to face me.

"The freaks and leeches and hangers on and all that shit- I've seen it before." He looks off. "Shit, I'm even a part of it, now."

He is, I realize.

"It's completely and utterly fucked. You know that, don't you."

More a statement than a question.

"If by 'fucked', you mean disorienting and … surreal and … probably exceptionally unhealthy, then yes, it's completely bloody fucked. But … I'm a businessman."

His face pinches. He looks me square in the eye.

"Brian, you're an _artist_! _Jerry_ is a fucking businessman! You can't have forgotten that!"

A click goes off in my head – why has no one said this to me before! – he's right! And I'm suddenly terribly annoyed with him for it.

"You seriously need to step away and get some perspective. Believe me, I know."

"So what are you saying. Retire? I'm not going back to playing bloody tea rooms."

"No, no -you don't have to. I mean," big sigh, long drag on the cig, blows it out. "What you need is to get away from the fucking circus for a while – if only maybe temporarily; clear your head." Another long drag.

"I'm dead serious. Or … I swear to Christ, you'll end up like me."

I'm stunned. "Curt, you're bloody fucking brilliant!"

He laughs bitterly. "Ya! I'm a _genius_- I forgot!"

"_You're_ the _reason_ I turned my whole career around! You inspired me- I absolutely wanted to _be_ you! You're the reason I'm a star!"

He's smiling, stubbing out his cig. "No, I think Jerry the _businessman_can be blamed for that."

"Fuck off. I'm being completely honest."

He looks at me.

"Curt, I swear to you, you're still my inspiration." I sigh. "You're the only real thing I know."

He takes my hands and looks me dead in the eye.

"Then … why don't we get the fuck outta here?"

I blink. "What are you talking about?"

"Just _go_! You and me. _Away_. Someplace."

My heart leaps. I want to jump into his arms, throw my legs round his waist and kiss him madly. I want to live with him in a trailer in Detroit, killing possum with a shotgun, but the small voice won't be squelched.

Commerce. Business. Lawyers.

My words tumble out.

"But, … the contract. The record starts in 2 weeks."

"So we'll go away for 2 weeks! Or … 3! Show 'em who's the star!"

The wheels begin spinning.

We're watching each other's faces.

The edges of my mouth slowly begin moving. They won't stop. His sly grin reflects back at mine.

* * *

><p>As I hang up the phone from making the arrangements he's pulling me hurriedly along.<p>

"We smell like a slaughterhouse. We have to clean up or they won't let us on the plane."

"This is an old house, Curt, with a tiny loo. It's not exactly a 2-person shower."

He grins wickedly. "That's okay."

I grin with him, turn on the water and roll the door shut. We kiss softly and giggle under the warm spray, but agree that there isn't time for anything other than a genuine cleanup.

We soap and lather and shampoo each other and it's absolutely glorious, running my hands through that magnificent head of thick, full, soft, sandy hair … and down over that broad, smooth, perfectly bumpy back, not to mention the sight of the foam running over that exceedingly scrumptious bottom …

He returns the favor and all is well until we each turn round to wash the front. One look from those weighty lids and I'm drawn in, drowning in a deep mutual kiss, and soft, soapy, stroking.

I pull away momentarily and look down at the gentle motion of our hands. I whisper.

"You do possess the prettiest cock."

He laughs.

"Thanks. It's never been called that before, I can tell you."

He joins me in looking down. He whispers.

"See, you've embarrassed it. It's blushing."

I raise my eyes.

"Curt."

"Mmm?"

"We shouldn't. We'll miss the plane."

He meets my gaze and presses me back against the tile, causing my hands to spring free.

"No we won't."

His grip tightens and the pace escalates to a blur, to the point where I'm incapable of keeping my eyes open or my mouth shut. I gasp and fumble and reach blindly for him and he stops dead. My eyes fly open in time to see him upending a bottle of Mandy's baby shampoo and drizzling it all over our cocks and hands, before tossing the bottle over the shower door. We mash our mouthes together in renewed excitement and resume rapid, mutual stroking.

We are each very hard, very quick- our bodies may be at the point of near-collapse from sleep deprivation and physical strain, but our cocks can see for miles. Eyes lowered, lips parted, we pant and lean against each other like boxers in the final round, too weary to hold up our own weight.

At once, his breathing changes. I turn and quickly press him back into the tile. He tilts his head slightly upward and shuts his lids. I pull away from his reach, bending and stroking him firmly with two hands, eyes alternating between above, and below.

Above: a sight of extraordinary beauty: Neck and chest flushed and softly heaving from hoarse, rhythmic breaths which match the pace of my hands. That stupendous head of wet hair, with strands and stringy bits plastered to him, those parted lips, moist and tense, that lovely, deeply furrowed brow.

Below: is enough to make a boy lose his fucking mind: He has blossomed into a deep, rich red, crowned by that beautiful rounded, swollen purple tip. I'm salivating over the thought of all that warm blood coursing through him and concentrating itself in this one extraordinarily sensitive, nerve-packed area.

I lean into his neck and whisper throatily.

"I'm gonna make you come."

He moans out loud and, exactly at the moment that I fall to my knees to take him by mouth, jittery as I am about the prospect, for reasons that will be explained at a later date, he cries out and spurts a split second too early, directly into my face.

I'm stunned, beside myself thrilled, and not sure what to do. In my excitement I lean forward and move to take him anyway, soap, foamy shampoo and all, but he pulls me up at the last second, mashing his lips into my mine, licking and sucking and kissing excitedly at the product of his own orgasm, even as he pants and gasps in response to it.

"You're incredible," he whispers, as he gently cradles my cock in both hands, before gripping firm and strong for a dozen or more lightning fast strokes.

Almost immediately the upward surge resumes- I'm propelled, hurtled forward at a swirling, dizzying pace by magical, unseen forces, up, up the great mountain to a strange place free of rational thought or sketchy details. I'm keenly aware of the the soles of my feet on the cool tub floor, the ridge of my left shoulder blade digging into the grout, the tiny, microscopic fibers inside my eyelids, the orbits of light in my inner ray of spectrum.

Oh my … oh god … oh no … okay … get your head out of the fucking clouds, boy, for here It comes.

My breath slows, my lids flutter involuntarily, and the magnificent, slippery motion will not cease.

He's standing in my face, watching as he wills me there, purposely, deliberately … up, up … to the ceiling, to the sky, inside out and knotted to bits and floating free and … moving … moving … _ohgod_ …

Somewhere far off in my mind I hear the curiously pained sound squeezing through the hollow of my throat, glancing off the tiles … my skull rocks backward and …WOOSHH! The flood crests and nearly upends me- I momentarily lose my balance but he's there to still me with a single sweet kiss.

Several moments later, panting, flushed, weak, I manage to pry open a lid. His face is wedded to my neck, arms gently round my back. I feel extraordinarily calm and safe, overwhelmed with sheer, unabashed love for this man cradling me, holding me to him.

He pulls away, slightly. His eyes are remarkably clear and bright and beautiful. His smile is warm and giving. My heart skips several beats.

"Wow. Fucking intense. I could feel it rippling through your whole body."

My voice is tiny.

"Yes. Incredibly … strong."

"Far out. I wonder why."

I want to blurt it to him- the truth … that it's because of him, that it's because I'm madly, hopelessly in love … I want to tell him it's because everything's changed. Every remaining bridge has been burned in these last few weeks, in these last few hours. The air, the scent of things, the taste, all have changed, so why shouldn't feelings? Sensations? The chemical makeup of the blood in my veins?

I want to, but instead, I lie. Through my teeth.

"I don't know."

He takes my hand. He whispers. He grins.

"We'll have plenty of time to figure it out." He kisses me quick. "Let's go catch that flight."


	4. Jimi Hendrix Didn't

On the plane, we're in 'reverse drag' as he calls it. Sans eyeliner, sans glitter, straight clothes, conservative hats, ties even. No one has a bloody clue. Just two businessmen flying to … Ibiza? First class? At 4am? Holding hands? Giggling?

But mostly, on the long flight, we sleep, something we have had very little of in the last day.

* * *

><p>When we arrive at the villa he begins running around excitedly, like a kid at Christmas.<p>

"Fuck, check this out! A tv in every room! Our own bar- fully stocked! Jacuzzi!"

He pulls me hurriedly by the hand up the stairs.

"A kingsized waterbed! Fucking waterfall in the shower!" He drags me out onto the balcony. "Our own fucking _beach_! Check out the views! And, holy shit- _the color of the_ _water _!"

He yanks on my hand to run back downstairs. I yank back. My head is throbbing from the flight.

"Curt, I've been here before. I own the place."

He stops and thinks.

"Fuck, that's right. Where are we again?"

"Spain, an island off the coast of Spain."

"_Spain_ ! Holy shit! Aside from that horrid middle of nowhere gig where you first saw me, the furthest I ever got with my band was fucking _Flint_!"

He runs down the stairs, opening doors and cabinets, beside himself with delight, before sprinting out the back door leading to the beach.

* * *

><p>We puff on cigars, feast on Catalonia steaks smothered in sweet, smokey Pimenton sauce, a local favorite, and get slowly pissed on Spanish beer, but not before a goodly amount of swimming and sunbathing. Naked, of course.<p>

"What the fuck else is a private beach good for?"

Never having been terribly athletic, I spend most of my time in the lounge chair and at one point even fall asleep. When I awaken, he's not there. I shield my eyes from the sun, searching the beach, then the water, and … there he bloody well is. Far out on the horizon, floating, the white waves carrying his body, which turns and dives straight in, and then up again, over and over, like he's been doing it all his life; an absolute natural. Here is Curt Wild, the fucked up, junked up madman – as everyone sees him, completely at one with the cool, clear blue water, blissfully submerging himself, surrendering himself to it. It's a sight so achingly pure and beautiful, I can't pull my eyes away.

And then suddenly … he is hurrying up the beach towards me. Body dripping, hair plastered to his neck, chest heaving, eyes alight … and a smile so wide, so serene, it will burst my heart.

* * *

><p>He stands before me, both hands running the towel rigourously over his head and back …<p>

"Abso-fucking-lutely incredible!"

… cock swaying with the motion, lit cigarette dangling precariously, within an inch of it's life, _just_ at the very edge of his lips …

"Almost better than heroin! If that's possible!"

It's such a quintessential Curt Wild moment, a sudden laugh bursts out of me.

He plops down in the adjacent lounge chair, oblivious.

"What?"

I lean over, take the cig from his mouth, and kiss him.

"Nothing."

* * *

><p>Toes buried in the warm sand, holding hands, we talk, for hours:<p>

The Doors. Jim Morrison- poet (Curt's take), or arsehole (mine)? But both agree we would have done him in a flash. Me: on a rooftop, someplace. Curt: Just off stage. "Like, feet from it, still in those leather pants, or better yet- on stage!"

* * *

><p>The Beatles. "That British invasion shit, so leaden and boring- completely ruined rock n roll."<p>

"Curt you must be joking. It bloody well saved it!"

"Excuse me but can you remind me what is 'bloody' about the 'well'?

"Fuck off arsehole! Defend your position!"

"Okay, okay! My position is that the limey British are too fucking academic. And they drink too much tea. I like _physical_ shit. Stuff that ROARS!"

"John Lennon!"

"Ya, okay. I don't know if he roars, but I do like John Lennon."

* * *

><p>Spanish swear words. He quizzes me for them and then announces he knows exactly one sentence in Spanish, learned in the 6th grade, which he recites with a grin and a bad accent:<p>

"Mama, donde esta mi jaqueta de esquiar?"

And then blurts out the translation:

"Mother, where is my ski jacket!", before exploding in laughter.

"_That is not 'mother where is my ski jacket_'!" I shriek.

We're both doubling over now, holding our bellies.

"'Mother, where is my ski jacket' is: 'madre, dónde es mi esquí chaqueta'. What you just said was 'it sucks, where this my _jaqueta_ to ski?' ' Jaqueta's not even a real word!"

"'It sucks'? I did not say 'it sucks'!" He can barely speak for laughing. "How can 'mama' mean 'it sucks' in any language! That's total blasphemy!"

* * *

><p>Cock vs pussy. Curt: "Tits are good. No, tits are great. They're so goddam soft and pliable, and you can fuck in between. They dangle in your face and you can pull them right into your mouth. And girls' nipples are so much more sensitive than guys'. I remember this one chick, she would go absolutely apeshit when I sucked on them, like she was fucking halfway to coming. Fantastic. I've never known any guys like that."<p>

I'm feeling distinct pangs of jealousy. He continues, oblivious.

"And eating pussy is like fucken Christmas – I have worshiped at that alter plenty, and then after, unless you're a complete incompetent- no lube!"

Curt hates lube.

"The bane of every fag's existence. You're rock hard with a beautiful, willing ass in your hands, and what happens? Can't find the fucking lube! Then when you do, it's ice cold, or the tube's all disgusting and squeezed out- empty, and it's _huge_, so then you're like, 'how many other dirtbags have been up this guy's ass today?' Total hard-on killer!"

I laugh but then argue with him.

"But you have to lie to women and bullshit them just get them into the sack. You never have to do that with a man."

Curt, laughing softly: "I don't think _you've_ had to do that for a while now, Demon, and I've never been around women like that, period; normal girls. The girls after me are always hardcore, real experienced- I'm like the 70th guy they've blown."

"But what about before? When you were younger?"

"Before I had a couple of girlfriends who were okay, but then in between there would always be this string of scarily skanked up chicks, like total mental cases and shit. Yep, that's pretty much been it."

"So what about cock?"

"What about it?"

"If you like pussy so much, why cock at all?"

He shrugs. "I don't know- you're the married guy; you tell me. Can't make up my mind, maybe. It's always been like that. Even when I was like 12, and at a girl's house, feeling her up, I'd be checking out her brother at the same time. Cock is just … "

Long pause. He sighs.

We look at each other. Slow moving, knowing grins creep across our faces.

* * *

><p>Slow sex vs fast. "Both have their merits," I offer. "Slow can be extraordinarily intense and lovely, but it depends on my mood, and … well I was going to say who I'm with, but for a very long while now, there's been no 'with'- it's more like me and 15 complete strangers, or, worse, like a bloody assembly line."<p>

He insists he has never had it slow, so he knows no other way. "Plus I think that would imply, like, actual 'lovemaking' or something, wouldn't it? I'm a junkie. I don't even know what that fucking word means."

* * *

><p>Hendrix.<p>

"You _met_ Jimi Hendrix?"

"Well sort of. It was like a year before Woodstock, and before Monterey Pop, when he lit the guitar on fire- early '67. He wasn't known all that well in the States yet at that point, but the word was spreading, especially among musicians, and it was starting to happen for him. I'd just turned 19. He was coming through Michigan with his band. Small club, if you can believe it. He'd just played his first tv shows in Europe, which I saw, and was completely decimated by. Same with his live show. Just, completely.

So somebody I was with somehow found out there was going to be this party after the gig, private party, but when we got there, they were letting whoever wanted in, in. So naturally we went. And being the smart, budding young addicts that we were, we decided it was a good idea so shoot up right before."

"Oh, no."

"Oh yes. So, all I remember was walking in and fuck, there he was! He looked amazing. Hair all frizzed out, not like it was later, but still pretty fucking cool. Some psychedelic shirt. Fairly heavy outfit for Detroit, which at the time was still real mid-western. This is pre the riots, mind you.

Anyway, so he's just sitting there, _talking to people_, to _fans_. That's how small scale it was. I had 10 million things I wanted to ask him about. Influences, gear, musician-shit, everything. So there's some sort of break in the conversation, I don't remember, somebody got up or something, and there I was. He, Jimi motherfucking Hendrix, looking up at me, and right exactly, precisely at that moment … the junk kicked in. Totally hardcore stuff. I opened my mouth, and couldn't speak, just instantly lost my ability to communicate. Babbling like a fool. Absolutely one of the top three most humiliating moments of my entire life.

I don't remember what else happened, except being dragged out of the place, and then a vague recollection of somehow ending up with my bare ass against the back wall of the club- some chick fucking me."

I laugh out loud.

"But …. do you see the evil of that shit? I couldn't put together thoughts or form sentences to save my life, fucking mortified in front of Jimi goddam Hendrix … yet my dick's still on auto pilot."

I'm laughing, not noticing that he's become solemn.

"You know, I swear, I hate to sound like somebody's parent or something, but … it's just hard for me to find the humor in any of it- the heroin shit. I'm clean now, pretty much, but it's just had such a stranglehold on my life for so long, and I've lapsed so many goddam times, I'm just completely wary of it. Pretty petrified, to be honest."

My heart plunges into my gut. I want to crawl under a chair for having laughed.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, squeezing his hand.

He's quiet for long moments, looking off, face grim, reflecting, and it's killing me. Such an intensely painful thing to watch. I feel utterly helpless. Our arms are bent at the elbow, forearms straight upward and, in an effort to comfort him, to break the spell, I absently rock our hands back and forth between us a bit, gently, like a metronome. Only in hindsight do I see it was like rocking an innocent, terrified child. Finally, I can stand the silence no longer.

"Curt, what is it?"

He goes to stand.

"Nothing. Where's my fucking cigarette ?"

I pull him back down.

"No, _tell_ me what you were thinking. I want to know. Please."

He sighs huge, weary, and then looks at me.

"Brian, it's just … painful, … intense, you know- harrowing shit, and … some of it not so distant. I just …," he looks off. "I just always figured, honestly, that I'd end up dead, like Hendrix. Long dead, by now. That it would get me in the end. It still could."

I snap at him.

"No it couldn't! You're stronger than Hendrix, than all those people! Don't you see that? Curt," I turn his chin to look at me, "you found the strength in you to beat it, to stop, didn't you? You finally said 'enough!'. You rose above it and turned your life completely around because you wanted to live! None of them could, but you _did_!"

A look of absolute revulsion crosses his face.

"Jesus Christ, is that what you actually _think_? That I'm some goddam tragic fucking … hero-loser who," he says, mockingly, "'wanted to live'? Who 'rose above it'?" He drops my hand and stands to face me, suddenly shouting. "Don't make me puke up my guts right here! This isn't a fucking romance novel! You have NO! _idea_! what the fuck you're talking about!"

I jump out of my chair. "And whose fault is that, arsehole ? You never open up! You'll fuck me all night, suck me off and swallow every drop, but you won't even fucking TRUST me with the truth about … whatever!" My turn to speak mockingly: "Curt Wild, he's such a mystery!"

His pupils dilate, and bore into mine.

I'm raging. I can't stop myself. "So, Mr Wild," I pretend to jam a microphone into his face. "Brian Slade from Melody Maker. Do tell me, one of the few people you've fucked more than once in your life, what magical thing was it, again, that dropped out of the sky, that you can't possibly take credit for, that didn't come from inside you, which inspired you to finally kick smack?"

He is trembling. Face and neck crimson, lips parted, tongue jammed behind his lower lip, shaking his head slowly, fuming. His voice is low and even.

"'What magical thing'? I should fucking _kill_ you right now. You wanna worship me, Brian? See what a big fine goddam upstanding hero I am? Okay. Try this: Remember that guy all strung out in the back room that you wanted to meet, more than anybody else in America? Remember him? Well just a few months before you shook his hand, he was raped."

My hand flies to my mouth.

He continues, seething.

"I believe in fact the proper term is 'gang raped', by a dealer and his goon, just after they shot him up with a dose that was way too potent. It should have killed him, but for some fucking unknown reason, didn't. But what it DID do for them, for these dealer-rapists was indeed 'magical'. Because it managed to put this sorry, pathetic junkie asshole into the most perfectly executed _stupor_ of his life, one that just happened to provide him with exactly enough awareness to know without any DOUBT that his _ass_ was being forcibly _rammed_–

"Curt, please!"

He shouts over me.

"–THAT HE WAS BEING RAPED, not ONCE, not TWICE, but THREE times, because some random lucky _third_ guy got into the act- can you _picture_it? So he, the _idiot_ who was _stupid_ enough to allow a dealer to shoot him up, who could in fact feel every _second_ of his own rape, was,_magically_ at the same time, rendered completely, pathetically unABLE, due to the monstrous strength of this borderline OD hit, to even struggle–"

"–Stop it!"

"–AND THEN, AFTERWARDS, Brian, your hero was _hemorrhaging_ so motherfuckingly bad from this gang rape, in which of course, no lube was used, in which, of course, they were not gentle, in _which_, of course, they took turns holding him down –"

"STOP IT!" I'm sobbing.

"–THAT HE HAD TO BE HOSPITALIZED. Do you understand? Because, see, the whole great IRONY to this beautiful story is, this guy, the one with so much incredible inner strength and love of life, he has a _peculiar_but still in his mind very vivid _history_, you might say, from a tender age, with HOSPITALS, get it? In which, to him, just being IN one is like the equivalent of being smothered, and I don't mean with nice clean fluffy white pillows, I MEAN that to HIM, it is the _exact_ feeling of having his lungs slowly filled up with _cement_ !"

I can stand no more and turn to run away. He grabs my arm, bruising it, and swings me round, hard, to face him.

"You are GOING to hear this!"

"No I'm not!" I sob. I try to pull my arm back but his grip is too tight. "You're hurting me! Let GO!"

He shouts directly into my face.

"So what _happens_, Brian Slade, is that he, your junkie-hero, due to the culmination of the day's events, manages to have the most severe, hyperventilating freak-out panic attack of his entire life, which is saying a lot, and right there in the hospital room he starts diving through drawers in desperation, looking for what he knows he will find: a nice sharp pair of metal scissors. And he is _so_ close, SO _just_ about to slice clean though his own fucking THROAT, when this huge motherfucking 300 pounds orderly storms in and leaps on him."

I'm doubled over, crying uncontrollably, holding my stomach in one hand.

"Ironically, eerily, almost _exactly_ the sequence of events that happened to him on a weekly basis when he was _13_! So then, after they stab him with the sedative and stitch him up, 13 intra-anal stitches, mind you, they dump his crying, sobbing, pathetic ass next door at the methadone clinic's very own _suicide_ unit! Okay?"

I struggle against him. He will not let go. His voice is sing-songy, now.

"Did you never wonder, Brian, why it is that in ALL the sex we've had, that you've never once gotten anywhere near my ass? Hmm? Do I not look to you like the type of guy who enjoys a good hard ass-ramming once in a while – voluntary, of course? Did it never occur to you that maybe that was a little strange?"

"NO! Shut up!–"

"–Is it because you were thinking, 'Man, Curt's just a natural top- how convenient!', and … well you'd be right about that, but it doesn't fucking _mean_ that I don't still _crave_ being made love to! That I don't_need_ that, sometimes, really badly- like anybody else. But guess what? Just so you know, not that it matters anymore, but because of what happened, it's too late- I'm frozen solid down there! I seize up! I _can't_be physically penetrated! Even when I'm so out of my mind turned on I can't see straight, my body won't let go! _It can't forget _!"

I rip my arm away and stagger off running for the house. He shouts after me:

"So how is THAT for ya? The Inspirational Story of How Curt Wild Kicked _Smack_!"

* * *

><p>I stumble to the bathroom, shaking, and fall to my knees, vomiting twice, violently. I remain, panting and sobbing into the toilet for several minutes before attempting to pull myself up. As I rise another wave of nausea hits me and I grip the wall until it passes.<p>

My head is hammering. I feel as if I've been assaulted. I listen before leaving the room, terrified of further confrontation, and hear nothing. I exit, collapse onto the sofa and pass out.

* * *

><p>An hour of fitful sleep, filled with violent dreams, and I awaken with a start. The room is dark except for a single lamp at the far end. I listen hard; anything? No; silence. Did he come in while I was sleeping? Is he upstairs? My head pounds hard. I drift off.<p>

* * *

><p>Another hour, and I awaken with vivid images left over from a dream- Curt, forced against a wall; Curt, held down. I wince. I listen; nothing. Sit up, look around; still no sign he's been here.<p>

Where _is_ he?

"I don't fucking _care_!" I shout out into the room. I fall back on the sofa, emotionally and physically drained. Desperate to turn my brain off, but unable to.

WHY did he do it? Why was he so cruel? Totally bloody flipped out! A side of him I'd never even had a glimpse of. Raging, absolutely bloody out of control, beside himself. And me, flinching the whole time, expecting at any moment to get hit.

"He might as well have!" I shout from the sofa.

Me, his friend; his lover, his sole supporter- financially and otherwise. Does he not see, does he not appreciate all that I've done for him! Incredible! Revived his career! Bloody well propped him up and given him life support!

Yes of _course_ I knew he was a maniac! Disturbed. Damaged!

I drift fitfully off.

* * *

><p>I slowly awaken. The sun is shining through the window. I sit up. The room is exactly as before. Panic rises in me. Where in god's name is he? What if something's happened?<p>

NO! I will _not_ think these thoughts! I will _not_ give a single shit! It's OVER! I do _not_ love him!

Last nite. What the bloody hell happened? How on earth did it escalate into this mad, frightening, disturbing confrontation? Fucking bastard wanker! Abusive! After all I've done for him! _Forcing_ me to listen to his horrible stories! Shouting them into my face as if they were _my_ fault!

I think back, going over it in my head. Why, Curt, you prick! In god's name, why?

… And it suddenly slams me in the eyeballs. I'm desperate for it to not be true.

Why? Because I bloody well … asked him ! In fact _begged_ him to tell me what he was thinking. The truth, I said! And he didn't want to! He _told_ me, but for some stupid fucking reason … I kept going! Goading him, egging him on, even mocking him, and, eventually, it struck a nerve, a particularly raw one (but then everything with Curt is raw), and yes, he snapped! Completely bloody lost it. No question there.

I lay back on the sofa, wincing, writhing. Raped! My beautiful boy. Violated. Held down … oh god, my stomach twists up into knots, I can't bear it – 3 men. Rupture. Blood. I suddenly feel nauseous. The hospital! Hyperventilating, panicking. No one knowing the history. No one caring. "Just another pathetic junkie." "Drug deal gone bad? What did you expect, faggot?"

And there am I, starry eyed, shoving my hand out to shake his just weeks later, like a _stupid_ bloody _teenager_ ! Absolutely no fucking _clue_. Everyone laughing over his lovable, strung-out, wasted form.

No. God, no. Don't let it be real. A wave of intense sorrow hits me. Scissors against his throat. Same one I've kissed, licked sweat off of. Same one that pitches back and emits that amazing hoarse, rough howl as he sings, that breathtakingly beautiful sound as he comes.

_God, please_.

The images fast forward, sickeningly. Me, mocking, taunting:

"Curt Wild, he's such a mystery!"

"Do tell me, one of the few people you've fucked more than once in your life …"

I'm on my side, curled up on the sofa, sobbing.

* * *

><p>I awaken with a gasp to the sound of him hurriedly ascending the stairs. I sit up shakily. I can hear him rifling around, tossing things about. After a minute he comes down, battered suitcase in his hand, looking a fright- hair upside down, eyes bloodshot, obviously hasn't slept.<p>

He points at me as he storms towards the door.

"Don't you dare say a fucking _word_. I'm leaving."

"Where on earth have you be–?"

"–I said _don't_ fucking speak to me! What is the matter with you? Are you fucking _retarded_ as well as deaf?"

"Don't talk to me that way!"

He laughs bitterly. "You know Brian, er um, or is it Maxwell? I thought I knew you, I really did. And I probably shouldn't even say this; I'm sure I will regret it, but I can never help myself, and plus, it doesn't matter now: The sickest, shittiest, most ironic thing about it is …, I was even starting to have pretty strong feelings for you, maybe even the dreaded _fucking_ "L" word, for real, if you can believe it. What a joke, right? Not something I tend to feel a lot, you know? But I'm so fucking glad now that I never said it, because it was a mistake, this whole thing. Huge, stupid fucking mistake, on my part, obviously."

I'm stunned. Complete shock. And panicked by the needless tragedy this has all become.

"Curt–"

"_NO_!"

"Will you SHUT UP for one minute! You've had your little speech!–"

"–Ya, wasn't it great? Wasn't it dramatic? I'm outta here- see ya." He turns towards the door.

I leap off the couch and grab his arm.

"Not before you HEAR ME !"

He looks at my hand on his elbow.

"Do you want me to hit you, Brian? Is that the icing on the cake you want to seal this whole deal with?"

"I want you to give me 5 minutes! Please."

He pulls his arm away, and stands back a foot. Face unmoved.

"Okay, go. Talk."

"No, I'm _not_ doing it this way; you standing by the door with a suitcase in your hand. Sit down."

"Why should–"

"–BECAUSE, you're a grown _fucking_ man, and we're going to talk to each other like grown men, okay? Is that too much for you to grasp?"

He ponders this momentarily, drops his suitcase, and pulls out a chair at the table.

"5 minutes."

I nod. "5 minutes."

My palms are sweating. Now what in the bloody hell do I say? I'm pacing, trying to form words, heart banging hard, head throbbing painfully. After a few moments, he speaks.

"You'd better talk, boy."

I'm suddenly angry. "Or else what? You'll beat me up?"

"Brian, listen to me: I figured out last nite I can't even trust you. Why should I spend another motherfucking _minute_ in this house!"

"What are you _talking_ about- you can't trust me? How on earth in all of this did you come up with that?

What, because I'm forced to resort to goading you in order to get you to open up, and then you completely bloody flip out on me for an hour–"

"–It wasn't an hour!"

"–That this somehow translates in your twisted little mind into me suddenly, no longer being trustworthy?

Where the _fuck_ do you _get off_–"

"–I get off lots of places."

I stop.

"You know what, Curt? I have so much bloody respect for you, you have no idea. I always have. And I can see that any respect you had for me is apparently gone, but even so, just for old time's sake- 'old time' meaning yesterday, I'm going to ask you to refrain from making stupid flippant teenage remarks. Okay? Can you manage that for our last conversation ?"

He seems embarrassed. He clears his throat.

"Yes."

"Okay." I take a deep breath. "Literally, when you think about it, and I've pretty much done nothing else since last nite, my only _fucking_crime in all this was _caring_ enough about you to try to get you to spill your guts- because I thought, naively, that it would help. That's it! I didn't realize that your initial resistance would make me lose my temper and act like such a complete wanker, and for that I'm sorry. More than sorry. I've been doubled over in here all night clutching my stomach. What the fuck have _you_ been doing all night? I even vomited !

And what about _you_? You _knew_ I didn't know any of those stories about your past, or you wouldn't have been telling them to me, or rather, _yelling_ them to me, and it seemed to turn into this whipping post thing. Like you needed to rub it in my face, and be as cruel about it as you could possibly be, in order to … punish me, or something. For having had to nerve to … admire you! Because I complemented you on the fact that … you survived and Jimi Hendrix didn't!"

He fidgets, agitated.

"NO! It's not that. It's, it's … complicated," big sigh. Turns to look at me. "Look Brian. I'm not a normal person. Nothing is ever easy with me; it never has been. You _know_ that. And, last nite …," bigger sigh.

"What you have to understand, is … this is the only way I can explain it."

He runs a hand up through his hair.

"People have _always_ … they always fucking see me in cartoon form. Like, as a caricature. I'm a fucking clown, a joke to them- they're just waiting for me to puke and pass out on the floor so they can snap a picture. And then, even worse, some people do the _opposite_ and treat me like some fucking outlaw druggie poster boy, you know? Anti-hero. I can't stand it, completely turns my stomach.

And … given how much I've struggled and dealt with in my life, from a very young fucking age, I'm at the point where I feel like … I'm not any of those people! I never _was_. And when I finally, _finally_ fucking realized that, it was such a tremendously powerful thing that I just sort of … clung to it, for dear fucking life, for strength. Cuz I haven't had a whole lot of sources of strength. And see I sort of nurture it by trying to maintain this basic sense of self respect, _real_ basic, based on an honesty I have with myself, about myself- no bullshit. All of my stories, all of the things you heard, are true, and more importantly, they are ME. Does any of this make sense?"

"Um, possibly. Go on."

"So last nite, I was just so _completely_ blown away and knocked back and just … fucking totally fucking _decimated_ in that instant when I though, holy fuck even _YOU_ were looking at me like somebody on the outside does! Heroic, or anti-heroic or whatever, like somebody who doesn't have the first motherfucking clue! After _finally_ fucking sort of _relaxing_ for what feels like the first time in my life, because I didn't have to be the cartoon character- I could be me. And so to feel to me like I'd been wrong all along, or been tricked or whatever, it just sort of felt like this wholesale _betrayal_. Just intensely excruciating."

He speaks softly.

"You have to understand, Brian; because of … my brother, and what my family did to me, I just have this hair-trigger, immense motherfucker of a chip on my shoulder when it comes to betrayal, or what I perceive to be betrayal. So … something in my head just snapped, and I freaked. I … lashed out."

"Yes, you bloody well did."

He looks at me.

"I'm sorry for that. I truly am. It was wrong. You didn't deserve it."

I am hit with a sudden tidal wave of emotion; exhaustion, dissipating anger, relief, fear, an overpowering sense of sorrow, all of it mashed up, confused. I approach and bend forward, wrapping my arms around him. His slide round my waist and meet at the back. I'm shaking.

"I'm so sorry."

"Shit, Brian, you have nothing to apologize for."

I'm crying.

"No. I'm sorry, for it all – for everything that happened to you. I can't bear it. It's just … absolutely broken my heart."

I'm whimpering, sobbing into his hair. He caresses my back and whispers.

"Shhhh."

"It just … kills me … to think of it."

He runs a hand up my neck.

"Shhh. It's okay."

I stammer awkwardly, choking out the words I can no longer withhold.

"I love you … _so_ much, Curt, … more than _anything_."

He stiffens, is silent for a moment, and then tightens his embrace, turning his head to speak into my ear.

He kisses it.

"I know."

* * *

><p>We hold each other wordlessly for several minutes, before leaning back. He raises a thumb to my cheek to push the remaining wetness away. His face is creased and weary.<p>

"You look a fright."

He rubs his eye.

"I _am_ a fucking fright."

"Where on earth did you go?"

"I don't know. I just walked and walked, tried to get lost, turning everything over in my head."

"You didn't sleep at all?"

"No. I was too focused on how I could leave the country without you knowing. I had it all planned out- getting back to Michigan, living in the woods. Did you sleep?"

"In bits. Nightmares."

He takes my hand and looks up at me.

"Let's get to bed. I'm about ready to pass out."

* * *

><p>We fall onto the mattress. He wraps an arm around me from behind and pulls the sheet over us. Just before I drift off, I hear it. A barely audible whisper.<p>

"I love you too."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's notes …<strong>_

Curt as rape victim. What in hell is that about?

When I thought about the character of Curt, this was one of the three things that I felt strongly would have happened to him in the form of a total, inevitable given. (I will refrain from mentioning the other two so as not to spoil any future reading.)

With heroin addiction, I imagine one would travel in some pretty dismal, disturbing, desperate and probably at times seedy, violent and dangerous circles. To boot, in America, where the drug is illegal, you are also dealing with an criminal/underworld element and all that would potentially come with that.

I have this picture in my mind of a heroin dealer as being a ruthless and sleazy/scummy businessman of a frightening magnitude. Hence I could see one trying to even a score via a violent attack and even rape- the same as pimps who attack and disfigure whores for 'straying'. So that's my excuse for having it be the 'dealer and his goon' who commit the rape.

As far as why I wrote this into the storyline to begin with though, in addition to the sort of pact I had made with myself, ie that I was writing for me and nobody else, and that I wasn't going to shy away from subject matter of a weird or disturbing or taboo nature so long as it felt right, made sense, served the story and was at least reasonably realistic … in addition to my feeling that this was certainly something that would have happened to Curt … there was I suppose a simple curiosity about turning rape on it's head and having the victim be male. Women are raped so often in popular culture that I wanted to see what the fallout from that would be for a man, physically and otherwise (later in the story there is discussion of how it left Curt mentally).

Re Curt's body having 'frozen up' and his inability to be physically penetrated … there is an actual medical condition in women called vaginismus (I'm sure there is a male equivalent to it but I don't know what it's called), which involves painful involuntary and uncontrollable spasms of the passageway whenever something is introduced into it- clearly the body's attempts to protect itself after it's been violated. Even if the person is sexually aroused and trusts the person they're with and wants to have sex with them, the body takes over and goes into spasm and basically prevents penetration, or makes it too painful to continue.

I suppose the more obvious place for a Curt rape would have been in the mental hospital – abandoned by his family and left to fend for himself at age 13, he would have been ridiculously easy prey to any hospital worker or patient scouting for fresh meat. All I can say is, like most of the story, it sort of fell where it fell and to a degree wrote itself. And as far as a reason to finally go clean, it beat the hell out of finding god or looking at jail time.

Re the choice of Ibiza for the location of their getaway … firstly of course, in the film there is that brief shadowy shot of the two boys on what appears to be a beach (when B gives C the Oscar Wilde pin) so it had to be a place with a beach. Secondly, at least these days there is apparently a sizeable population of English folks who have vacation homes in and/or retire or simply move to Spain. Thirdly Ibiza is nowadays a well known gay mecca and I thought it would be interesting to step back in time, before it became club-central to when (according to the history I've read) it was really much more of an isolated fishing island. When adding the three things together it seemed a great hideaway for a bisexual rock star. I have not thus far been able to locate population records for the island for 1972, but I'm pretty sure, considering that it's population today is over 40,000, that (as someone mentions later on in the story) it only having 800 inhabitants is way, way off the mark, but oh well.


	5. Staggering, Unspeakable Beauty

I awaken. Brightly colored streaks of sunset fill the room. He is sitting up, against the headboard, looking off.

I climb over, straddling his hips. We clasp hands and intertwine fingers. We stay this way for long moments, silently reacquainting ourselves with each other's face.

My heart is full to bursting.

We make love for the first time. Warm breezes pass over our bodies through the flowing curtains, all tension, all pressure, gone.

Our mouthes fold over and absorb one another, spit and sweat and wetness meshing, tongues gently mixing, swirling, exploring.

We continue, lazily, no direction, no timetable, spending forever inside each other's mouthes, along each other's jawline, kissing closed lids, brows, temples, exploring the line from earlobe down the neck, to the shoulder, and back again, deliberately ignoring the building need in both of us.

His skin smells of saltwater, and musty, days' old wine. I'm completely lost, foggy-headed, drunk with him.

I slip backward, between his knees, and slide him down from the headboard. His body is splayed out before me, surrounding me, spanning all I know. I want with every fiber of my being to disappear into his flesh, to dissolve myself completely, remaining only as an afterthought.

Under his arm I bury my face, kissing and tasting, claiming individual hairs. My lips slide down … over … and along … the curve of his hips, across to his navel and eventually … upwards, licking, lingering over his sternum and collarbone, and then luxuriating, for very long moments, in the beauty of firm, pale pink nipples.

Through it all we remain hand in hand, fingers entwined. Through it all he remains still and silent, eyes following, breath calm. It feels new, all of it; unnamed.

* * *

><p>"What is this called?", I imagine him asking.<p>

"Consumption," I offer.

"Inhalation," he counters.

"Beauty!"

"Art!"

"Truth!"

"No, no, wait!", he bellows, "I've got it – _Nourishment _! _Nourishment for the soul _!"

* * *

><p>I lower, and move to drink in belly and thighs, while slowly, gently twisting a shaky finger through the dense ringlet of curls in between. It is an attempt to buy time, to distract myself from what lies tantalizing, tormentingly there, full, flushed, and waiting. It is the seat and source of the most primal, most intense craving I have known, the thing I have vividly imagined, coveted, and beat off to more than anything else, and more times than I care to admit: taking him by mouth.<p>

I look up. His eyes are calm and quiet, innocent of the stirrings in my belly, the enormity of this moment for me. Yes, I have officially 'had' his cock, had it embedded deeply in my body and even been flooded with his seed. A miracle, a dream, all of it. And yet … the sheer, naked intimacy of cradling the organ at the center of his body, this root of his being, this force behind everything that drives him … the only one of his organs that can be held in my hands, the only one that can be entrusted to the warm confines of my mouth …

I'm so nervous I could spit, and yet, of all the times for it, my mouth has gone dry.

I look down. Really, on top of everything else, it has no business being this beautiful. I mean, for fuck's sake, it's not like it had to win me over. It's not like it had to make me want it.

It pains me, even as I have these thoughts, to think of any part of Curt as 'it'- yet another sign I'm in love.

_Love! My dear god. _We really did say it! _Fuck ! _

One doesn't ever know, does one? Even a stolen middle of the night trip, certainly in the music business, is no guarantee of anything at all, and yet … here we are, here _he_ is- the most beautiful and mind blowing thing that's ever happened to me; the human embodiment of a dividing line, perhaps _the_ dividing line of my life.

Fittingly, this will be our first act of lovemaking since our mutual admissions. Fitting because, since the dawn of Curt, I have only been able to see oral in terms of love and healing and nurturing, rescue, redemption, resurrection, even, with he being the needy, damaged soul, so desperate for care and mending. I only hope that it fulfills my dreams in leaving no doubt in his mind as to just how much I love him- with the full power of my soul; more, perhaps, than anyone else ever has, or will.

At the same time, as I eye this beautiful, weighty bit of flesh, there is of course this blinding bone-deep need to plunge him deep, to torment him til he's half mad, to bloody well scramble his brains.

Suddenly in the middle of all of this pondering I'm yanked upward by hand, where he absorbs my mouth in a deep, spectacularly intensive kiss. When I pull my face back, we're both panting, breathless, and ready.

I bounce downward. He watches. I move closer, reach out, and grasp him at the base. A small moan and quiver pass through his body. The blood bangs hard in my loins.

I tilt my head, lean in, pucker my literally trembling lips, and … oh god, such a profound and precious moment for me … _press them sideways into the shaft_. His flesh is warm and silky smooth, exactly as I'd imagined, and I'm all but overcome desire and excitement. My tongue slithers outward and tastes him for the very first time.

_Oh sweet christ_. He is salty, pungent, with a pleasingly unshowered scent. Even better, he's clearly feeling it- moaning in an almost indecipherable whisper as I move to lick the protruding veins, sliding slowly down and over them, with a bonus return trip directly up the Great Magical Seam.

Oh, god, truly, I could faint from joy.

And now, dead ahead, one thing awaits: the prize, the crown, the peak of it all. I grasp him firmly and take the tip, swollen and rounded, partially into my mouth, tongue flicking hungrily into the eye, while allowing suction to pull him slowly inward. I can so clearly feel the tempo of the blood coursing hard through him.

He lays still, in surrender, as I move, sliding him further inward, swirling over him, pulling and sucking softly, guided by the subtle shifts in his breath, exactly as I was born to do.

He quickly grows firm, and thickens, seeming to swell further with each slow, concentrated pass of my tongue, with each firm, flat lick of the ridge.

Instinctually, his hips respond; an ever so slight forward tilt, almost imperceptable, and then back, forward, back, slipping himself gently in and out of my mouth; a thing so powerfully erotic, so staggeringly beautiful, I am now the one surrendering.

I tighten the seal and hold myself still, resisting the powerful urge to plunge downward.

I raise my eyes. His are shut, lips parted, panting softly, hair splayed across the clean white pillowcase, hands in repose at his sides. Just a lad laying about the Mediterranean

The tilt and rock continue, the upward tilt now more of a thrust, with the return remaining slow. I form a pointed tip with my tongue on the outward draw, which he reacts to by slowing further, digging and dragging the underside into. It becomes that the quickening inward move is merely a way to get back to that torturous outward draw, faster.

On the next pass inward, I slide down to meet him, and he moans audibly. On the outward draw, I pull quickly away, and he gasps. We continue this achingly slow, unbearably erotic call and response for several minutes until my jaw aches, and he is smooth and hard as iron.

I glance upward. The image is burned into my brain: face and neck damp and flushed, a mask of turmoil and tension, fists clenched, lips full and moist- mesmerizingly beautiful.

I release him, and climb up his chest to his meet them. He grabs my head with both hands and clamps down on my mouth in a fierce, bruising, lengthy kiss.

I pull myself away, drop back down and encapsulate him, tight and deep, thrusting relentlessly. He gasps hard and stutters out strings of nonsense gibberish and bad words until I feel a shudder pass through him. It is precisely at this moment that I stop dead, back completely away, and encircle his nipples. His head raises off the pillow, mouth open and panting, before flopping back down. I spend several minutes licking and visiting his chest, belly, neck, and hips before returning to find he has softened, visibly.

Perfect.

My fingers grip the base tight, and pull upward at a medium pace. His toes and feet curl and bend behind me as I carefully run my tongue in a slowly spiraling outward circle, from the oozing eye to the ridge, and just beneath, until the iron smoothness returns.

I keep him exactly at this point for several minutes, slowing or stopping immediately each time I sense he's too close; meticulously hovering, straddling the precarious, excruciating line between 'just exactly before' and full on orgasm. His neck is dripping sweat. He squirms and fidgets terribly, head turning in agony, panting and spewing breathy curses.

I stop suddenly, pull off, and drop a gentle hand to his sac (it being the body's natural Torment Weigh Station; sensitive and responsive to stimulation, but never enough to get him there.) His head raises again, tilts backward, and drops hard in turmoil.

I carefully caress it, while kissing his upper and inner thigh, before leaning to take the small tight orb into my mouth, holding one, then the other, pulling softly and exhaling warm air. A tingle radiates through him.

I shift away, and take his first finger between my lips, sucking him inward rhythmically, followed, one by one, by his thumb, and other fingers, as my hand continues to cup and strokes the delicate sac.

Deep moans shudder out of him.

I shift back and tightly grasp the base of his cock, which has softened slightly again. He is wound so tight he jumps in response.

For long seconds I hold him still, lips hovering close, so that he can feel my breath. It feels like a life's dream that I would make him come and yet I can't bear for it to end. I continue to toy with him until finally … I dive. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten times, rapidly … and his head snaps backward, followed immediately by the telltale violent intake of breath.

In the millisecond of stillness and calm after his lungs have filled to capacity, exactly at the moment prior to release … my fingers squeeze.

From his throat there is a brief strangled cry. I watch as eyes fly open, lids bat wildly, head bends and twists, writhing backward into the mattress a blurred out flurry of confusion and bewilderment, torturously combined with an instantaneous, 100-fold spike in the level of sensation- the fluid building up behind the bowed, straining door, hinges ready to pop.

Truly a thing of staggering, unspeakable beauty. I'm careful, though, to not get too carried away; at the count of 5, I release.

Instantly, back and pelvis leap upward, high off the mattress, hips buck and spasm wildly, and my mouth is flooded. A roaring, guttural howl-scream fills not just the room but the entire house.

He collapses backward, desperate gasps rasping forth from his lungs.

* * *

><p>I climb up on my side to face him, laying a hand on his sweat soaked, heaving chest, beaming like the sun.<p>

It is a full minute before he speaks, during which he licks his lips, swallows hard, and opens and closes heavy lids with difficulty.

"Where in the … fuck … in all … goddam hell … did you learn _that_?"

I'm grinning like an ass. I tuck my head under his shoulder and kiss it.

"None of your business."

He laughs/pants.

"Brian … it's gonna take me … a fucking year to get over this!"

I laugh. "Good! Then I'll have a lock on you for a year!"

"Yes, you will." He grins and plants a kiss on my forehead. "Seriously though. Were you _trying_ to kill me, or just give me a fucking heart attack?"

My smile splits my face in two. "I was trying to _slay_ you."

"Well … consider me … _thoroughly_ slain, then."

We laugh together. I am positively floating on air, stupid with love, giddy and silly and overwhelmed with sheer, utter joy and delight, convinced I have achieved The 9th Wonder of the World and The Great Pinnacle of Happiness all at once.

After a beat he glances, and then reaches downward. I'd actually totally forgotten.

I meet his hand and mesh my fingers with his.

"It's okay. I'm fine," I whisper.

"What do you mean?"

I look at him.

"I just wanna stay like this, Curt. I don't care about anything else in the world right now."


	6. The Body Doesn't Lie

Some time later I awaken. He is standing, shirtless, by the bureau, pulling on a pair of trousers. I watch as they slide up over the curves of his lovely bare bottom and laugh quietly.

"Do you never wear knickers?"

He turns and speaks, excitedly. "Finally! I was afraid I was going to have to wake you up. Let's go out!"

I rub my hand over the creases in my face.

"Out?"

"Ya! There's a club nearby and there's a band playing tonite I wanna see. Let's go!"

I glance at the nighttable.

"Curt, it's 11:30."

He is buttoning up a shirt.

"Perfect! The band goes on at midnite!"

I'm rubbing my eyes.

"How did you find this out?"

"My walk the other night, or the night before, whenever the hell it was. This rock star life has me completely fucking disoriented."

I yawn.

"Come on, Brian! I haven't heard any live music in months! Except for that fucken Maxwell Demon guy."

I groan.

He pulls on my arm.

"Get dressed! These guys are supposed to be like the Spanish New York Dolls, if you can picture that,

only no drag- Spain's too fucking macho."

I'm lumbering out of bed.

"Okay but what if we get recognized? I do not want anyone finding out we're here."

He gives me a wry look.

"'We'? There's no 'we' here- _you_ are the star, my friend. No one's lookin' for the likes of me, I can assure you."

"Bollocks! Answer the fucking question!"

He leans down, pulls something out of his suitcase, and smiles giddily.

"Not to worry, Mr Demon. You're lookin at a master of disguises!"

In his hand are two short, dark-haired wigs.

* * *

><p>As we walk in, Curt asks me the meaning of the the sign hanging on the dingy, spray painted, all black building. - "La Rata".<p>

"It's the name of the place."

"Which is?"

"The Rat."

He ponders this for a moment.

"Oh."

The bartender eyes us cautiously; two strange white men who burst out laughing every time they glance at each other. We do look ridiculous. Curt's dirty blond locks won't seem to stay tucked in, and my close-cropped near-afro doesn't suit me in the least. The club is tiny, low ceilinged, and mostly dark; definitely more of a no-nonsense hard rock joint; no pop pansies here.

Finally the band emerges, about 40 minutes late, and I determine right away they are three things: 1) disheveled on every level, 2) sloppy beyond belief, and 3) earsplittingly loud. Muñecas de Nueva York, indeed.

Curt, downing his 3rd Spanish beer, somehow manages to push his way to the front of the densely packed crowd in about 4 seconds, while trying to pull me along behind, but I lose my grip. In truth, I'm just as happy to remain here in back, where at least there's air.

As the band charges into their second raucous, particularly blistering song, I begin noticing something odd down front. The crowd is mostly still, except for a single figure, whose head and torso bounce straight up and down in place, apparently to the 'beat', (though to my ears, the insanity of the volume makes any 'beat' impossible to decipher.) The crowd seems to be backing away slightly, allowing him room.

After about 30 seconds of this, something flies from the figure's head. A hat, maybe?

No.

A wig.

Curt.

Of course.

I smile. It is a beautiful thing to watch him, in his element, lost in the music, joyously bouncing and leaping with abandon, high into the air, throwing his arms straight upward. He does this throughout the band's set, though is more subdued during the few slower numbers. Finally, just prior to the last song, I see the lead singer bending towards the crowd, extending his hand. I see a hand reach back, then to my astonishment and horror, the singer shouts excitedly into the mic:

"Las señoras y caballero! Nos honran para traerle un tonite especial de la sorpresa, una sorpresa a nosotros así como a usted …"

("Ladies and gentleman, we are honored to bring you a special surprise tonite, a surprise to us as well as to you …")

"… Senor Curt Wild !"

And he is pulled up onto the stage.

"Oh no." My hand flies to my mouth.

There is a tiny smattering of polite, indifferent applause from the crowd, and I'm relieved. This is 1972, and Curt and his music at this point are barely known outside of musician's circles, the rest of the world always tending to ignore it's pioneers.

I laugh out loud, clap and whistle as Curt does an exaggerated, deep bow before disappearing back into the crowd, only … he doesn't disappear. He is in fact handed a microphone. Holy bleeding christ, he's not going to sing!

I watch as he leans over to speak into the lead singer's ear at some length, who leans back, there is then a count-off in Spanish, and with a crash of a cymbal, a song commences.

I immediately recognize it as the one that Curt has been obsessed with of late, playing it ad nauseum on his tape machine- "Pills" by, fittingly enough, the New York Dolls.

He leaps forward and barks out the lyrics, which indeed, are also fitting, but uncomfortably so:

_As I was lying in a hospital bed_

_A rock n roll nurse going to my head_

_She said 'hold out your arms, boy,_

_Stick out your tongue-_

_I've got some pills I'm gonna give you some'!_

For the chorus, he bounces around excitedly, all over the stage like a pogo stick, and almost rips the cord from the mic:

_Shootin it to my head! To my head!_

_A rock n roll nurse going to my head_

_To my head, to my head,_

_As I was lying in a hospital bed!_

The crowd, most of whom know very little English, nonetheless bob their heads and seem to be enjoying the spectacle of Curt's ever agitated and hyperactive performance. He leaps to and fro, bounces manically, lurches forward at times to sing directly into someone's face, bends himself straight backward at one point, and spits out the final verse, what I know to be his favorite, with a particularly frantic intensity:

_Doctor doctor doctor! Run here and see!_

_I don't dig this jive the nurse givin me!_

_Gives me the shots! Gives me the pills!_

_Got me takin this junk! against my will!_

As the song dissolves in a giant tumbling mess, Curt suddenly leaps and flies forward, face first, into the crowd, and momentarily disappears from view. Not something that was done or even heard of in 1972, or really not again for another 20 years.

It is all reminiscent, of course, of my very first glimpse of him 6 months before. I had been storming out of my tent in a huff after a humiliating reception at the hands of the crowd, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of something I had never seen the like of: this crazed, shirtless being throwing himself about without any care for his own safety, sacrificing himself, more like an exorcism than a concert.

It was, I have come to realize, simply the essence of Curt: he cuts himself open and expels the contents and it grabs you by the balls, and twists. You are helpless to look away, helpless to be unaffected.

In the club, he is still buried in the crowd and I grow worried; he could have broken his bloody skull for god's sake, but no matter. 10 or 15 seconds later he is climbing back onstage, hair awry, a bit scratched up, shirt mostly torn. He looks down, laughs, rips it off, and tosses it into the audience with a flourish.

The crowd is leaping high into the air, stomping and cheering wildly, and I'm leaping with them. His bandmates laugh, shake their heads, pat him on the back, and slap him five. The drummer reaches out to shake his hand. I look over and the bartender is sticking his fingers in his mouth, whistling and applauding- hands straight up over his head. When I look back, I can see that Curt is clearly overwhelmed, and over the moon. His smile is as broad and blissful as I've ever seen it and my heart is bursting for him. Tears are rolling down both of our cheeks.

* * *

><p>The band begins exiting the stage and Curt turns to step into the crowd, but is swiftly pulled along by the singer, and disappears behind a curtain.<p>

I work my way in the opposite direction of the crowd, who are all leaving, and head straight for the curtain where I am stopped dead by a large unsmiling figure.

I then hear myself utter the ridiculous phrase that, ironically, I realize hundreds have said in reference to me over the last year. The thing that people have been saying at shows since the dawn of rock and roll, and groupies.

"Pero estoy con Curt Wild!"

("But I'm with Curt Wild!")

The bouncer laughs, and snorts dismissively.

"No pienso que usted está con Sr. Wild"

("I don't think you are with Mr Wild")

"Oh, MISTER Wild, is it?" I snap

He looks at me.

"Usted puede ahora irse, o se lance fuera de – su opción."

("You can leave, or be thrown out- your choice.")

"WHAT?"

Okay, calm down, or you _will_ be thrown out. And now the dilemma. Do I resort to telling him who I am, who it is that is underneath this idiotic wig? And if I do … will he even know who that is? Or care? Will it make things better for me, or worse? As Curt said, Spain is nothing if not macho- they might not be terribly inclined to accommodate what they see as a simpering queer from England.

I opt to ponder this over at the bar, where I order a drink from the bartender who is staring at my wig. Finally I snap at him, annoyed.

"¡la ginebra y el tónico I dijeron!"

("Gin and tonic, I said!")

He turns to make it, while I turn on the barstool, facing the curtain, muttering and whining to myself as several people are let backstage. What is going on? Why hasn't he come out? Why hasn't he sent for me? I so want to be with him at this moment!

Several minutes pass, during which yet more people are allowed backstage, and the drink is finally served. I down it in a single frustrated gulp, and immediately order another, and then another. 15 minutes pass before I begin to notice something: the vast majority of those being let backstage … are young and female.

Curt's words suddenly come flooding back:

"Tits are great … girls' nipples are so much more sensitive than guys' … eating pussy is like Christmas … and then, no lube!"

I shoot up off my stool and jam a hand into my pocket to pay the $4 charge, knowing the only thing on me is a Spanish $100 bill. The bartender's eyes widen as he takes and examines it.

I stroll over to the bouncer and extend my hand to his, wordlessly slipping him $80 Spanish dollars, and he immediately lets me by.

I bolt past the curtain and enter a large, smoke-filled, densely packed room. Densely packed, for the most part, with women.

I recognize various members of the band scattered about the room, each with a girl or two at his side, a few members of what appear to be the band's roadies gathering wiring and such, some people who appear to be managers or club employees milling about, and then in the far corner, in a cloud of smoke, finally, there is Curt.

He is sitting in a chair, cigarette dangling, shaking his head and shrugging. Before him, on the chair's ottoman, sits a girl who leans forward to say something into his ear. He backs away again and shrugs a second time; clearly not understanding her.

I examine the girl with interest. She is about 19 or 20, from what I can gather, mini skirt, low cut top, absolutely gorgeous, smooth olive skin, long dark wavy hair, pretty green eyes; just a stunner. As they attempt to communicate, I notice his eyes dropping briefly, almost imperceptibly, to her bulging cleavage.

I'm seething.

I charge up to them.

"Brian!" he stands quickly, eyes alight. "Where the fuck have you been? I was getting worried." He engulfs me in a giant bear hug and kisses me on the mouth, then grabs my hand to hold it. No one seems to notice, or they are pretending not to.

I drop his hand and reply cooly. "Well I don't need to ask where _you've_ been."

"Man, I sent for you 3 separate times and they told me they couldn't find you! Where the fuck were you? I was afraid you'd gone home but I couldn't imagine that you would."

"I was right at the bar the whole time, waiting for you, arsehole." I eye the girl. She is, indeed, a knockout.

"I'm really sorry. Man, I wanted to be with you so bad, but they dragged me in here and then –"

"–And then you met your lovely little new friend here. What is her name?"

He whispers to me. "I still haven't been able to figure it out. 'Banky', or something? 'Blanche'?"

I turn to her.

"¿Hi soy Brian, cuál soy su nombre?"

("Hi, I'm Brian, what is your name?)

"Bianca".

"Un qué nombre bonito"

("What a pretty name." I tell her.)

She smiles.

I turn to Curt, muttering. "Bianca, you idiot."

"Whatever", he shrugs, and turns to take my hand again. He leans close and whispers. "Let's get outta here. I'm horny as fuck."

I pull away.

"_Are_ you, then? How interesting."

He is puzzled, then it clicks.

"Brian, stop it. You know I get that way after a gig."

"Ya, especially when you have dozens of nubile, comely young things at your disposal."

"Fuck, what is up with you? Why are you being like this? The band was nice enough to invite me backstage. I wasn't about to insult them by leaving right away."

"Mmm hmm. Well I have a better idea. Why don't we leave now and invite Miss _Bianca_ home with us? Give some Spanish pussy a try."

He yanks me aside. "Jesus christ, are you drunk? What is wrong with you? Quit acting like a jealous fucking queen!"

"Well what did you expect? I was waiting out there for _fifteen fucking minutes_, only to find out you were in here all the time with Miss _Tits _!"

He yanks me further into the corner and shout-whispers.

"Will you _keep your fucking voice down_ ? She's just some fucking girl ! _She _approached _me _! I didn't approach her!"

"What difference does it make who came onto who ?"

"I was _not _coming onto–" He takes a breath. "Listen to me, Brian, I love _you_, remember? Did you forget that? I don't wanna _be_ with anyone else ! Period !"

I back down, feeling both a sudden rush of warmth, and guilt.

"I know but Curt," I sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. All I could think of the whole time I was waiting just now was you waxing poetic over the female form- sensitive nipples, remember?"

He looks around quickly.

"Yes, I DO remember, now will you shut your stupid trap!"

"Alright, alright. I'm being a complete … arsehole."

"I agree with you there!"

_God_. Here I am, accusing, insinuating, causing a mini-scene, the whole while over nothing- he loves me, this beautiful creature loves me and doesn't want anyone else. He just told me so. The black venom in my heart is replaced with a cooling, soothing serum.

You _are _an arsehole. You don't deserve him, _do_ you ?

I turn to look at the girl from the corner. She really is uncommonly beautiful, just smoldering, and seems to get more gorgeous by the second. It occurs to me that if Curt and I weren't together and Mandy hadn't turned me off so badly to women, I might even be tempted myself, but she clearly has zero interest in me- she's in fact giving Curt a _look _as we stand here.

"Jesus, she's about to catapult herself up onto a fence post. And meanwhile, you're rock hard."

"I told you, Brian–"

"–Bollocks. I saw you sneaking glances at her cleavage."

"Alright! How could I help it? She's not exactly hiding her tits- they were right in my face!"

"And also, you don't get hard from singing one bloody song."

He sighs.

"It's okay, I understand -bloody girl'd get a blind man off."

I feel a sudden rare burst of unselfishness. I turn to him.

"Let's be completely honest about this. You and I both know that if things were different, you'd probably be dragging her out of this place right this second, pulling up that short skirt, and–."

"–Shut UP!"

"It's true."

He snaps. "So what if it's true!"

"So you admit it."

He clears his throat.

"Yes. I fucking admit it, are you happy? If you and I were not together, I'd …undoubtedly be banging her to smithereens right this second."

He looks at me.

"But Brian, here's the thing: It would be just another meaningless fuck, like they all have been. And since we've been together, I suddenly feel like, with strangers and such, groupies- _I feel like I don't want what anyone can have, anymore."_

My god, he _is_ the most amazing creature.

"Do you understand?" He inquires, tender, sincere.

Fuck, I'm melting here.

"_Yes_. And yet … you're excited by her, Curt. She's made you hard."

"If you're … if you're going to force me to admit it, yes. It just … happened."

"It's okay."

He looks at me with a twisted face. "_How_ is it okay?"

I'm as sure about what I'm going to say as I've ever been about anything.

"Curt, you're a full grown man. Just because you love me, doesn't mean you're suddenly, magically immune to, no longer susceptible to … external stimuli."

"Christ, let's just go, okay?"

"No! I don't think we should run away from this! It's not fair to you. Your willy is telling you something, even if you want to pretend it's not. It's saying you still crave pussy and tits, just as you always have. And it's _okay_ because despite the fact that I can't offer that–"

"_Brian_–"

"–DESPITE the fact that I'm very pretty indeed, I'm not a bloody girl, and the truth is, the way I feel about you, Curt, and … knowing everything that you've been through in your life, I realize that … honestly, the number one thing in the world to me actually is … your pleasure, that you be taken care of, and … nourished, fed. That your needs to be met, whatever they are. Is that crazy?"

"Yes!"

"Curt, I love you. I'm not intending to lose you."

"I know, but, Brian, it almost sounds like what you're saying is–"

"–What I'm saying is … what you want, even if you're too loyal and sweet to admit it to yourself … I want for you. Maybe I want to see you _in motion_. See you completely lose yourself. I think it might be the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed. I want your … joy and your bliss, even if only momentary."

He blinks.

"That's what knowing you is doing to me," I add, "it's making me unselfish." I smile. "Not something I'm terribly accustomed to, must admit."

"God, you're … absolutely blowing my mind. You're actually saying you want me to–"

"–Fuck her. Yes."

"Brian, I wanna be with _you_, can you not understand that? I don't _wanna_ be with her !"

"The body doesn't lie."

"I'm telling you the truth !"

"And I _believe_ you, that's not at issue here! It's just that, it's … plainly obvious- you're split in two. You love me, you're with me, but your body has memories of … things I can't give you."

He doesn't respond.

"And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that," I add.

We both look over at Bianca. She's sitting facing us, eyes on Curt, ever beautiful.

"Do you understand?" I inquire.

"No."

"Curt–"

"–Brian, … it would feel … so shitty and wrong, being with someone else at this point."

"Then … maybe, maybe make her your … swan song … to women, to other people."

He fidgets.

"I, I don't like this."

"I do."

I begin walking towards Bianca.

He grabs my arm. "Brian, wait! What we have is completely precious to me. I don't want to mess with that–"

I smile.

"–It couldn't possibly."

He searches my eyes for what feels like forever … and then lets go of my arm.

I turn and walk. He stays behind, agitated, in the corner.

"Bianca?"

I lean forward.

"Tengo un beachhouse, la derecha encima del camino. Y Curt aquí realmente quisiera demostrarlelo, sólo él es demasiado tímido preguntarle sí mismo."

("I have a beachhouse, right up the road. And Curt would really like to show it to you, only he is too shy to ask you himself.")

She smiles immediately and nods her head. "Si, si!"


	7. Imagining There's Someone Back There

At the house he bolts up the stairs and slams the bathroom door behind him.

She looks at me. I try to laugh.

"Como dije, _tímido_."

("Like I said, _shy_.")

She approaches me and moves in to kiss, but I back away and gestures towards the bathroom.

"No, no- el, el."

("No, no- him, him.")

I hear the shower water go on, and try the door. He's left it unlocked.

She smiles seductively, and begins to disrobe.

Her body is actually much more amazing than I'd thought. Quite full breasts- sizeable, but not oversized, with lovely pale brown nipples, a tiny waist, curved hips, and long shapely legs.

I'm so pleased for Curt.

I open the door, and we enter the bathroom.

The shower is actually a large, tiled, glass-enclosed chamber complete with numerous hand holds and built-in deep cushioned bench seats. Perfect for rigorous, multi-position sex, and designed precisely for it.

I sit outside the enclosure, on the far end of the room, suddenly incredibly nervous, and try to make myself invisible.

He is standing naked under the warm water, as she enters, and for the first time, I feel bad for him. This wasn't his choice, he was terribly uncomfortable with it, and now he's trapped.

She approaches slowly, and reaches a tentative hand out to him, touching his chest. I can see him sighing resignedly.

He looks down, running a finger absently over her waist and hips, over her belly and between her breasts before moving in to kiss her, and soon places a hand behind her head to pull her closer as their mouthes open and mix.

Gradually the kiss intensifies to the point where I can hear the soft squishy suction over the water.

To my surprise and great disappointment, instead of feeling happy for him, instead of seeing the beauty in it all, I'm immediately stung with terrible stabbing pangs of jealousy. A battle begins to rage within me- on the one hand, I love him and I want this for him, I want his pleasure, his healing, from all he has been through. On the other hand, the man I love is naked and kissing someone else, right in front of me.

He stops suddenly and turns to position her so that the water runs down her back, and reaches for the bar of soap. He lathers up, and places a flat, open hand on her right breast, palming her protruding nipple in soft, slow circles, before moving to her left breast, then eventually doing both at once, taking his sweet time. The look of desire and hunger in his eyes is as plain as the day is long.

Lord how I hate her guts.

His hands knead and caress and cup the weight and form of her breasts, and he moves in to kiss her again. Quickly it escalates, and he spins her round in place, arms on that small waist, so that her chest now faces the spray, and drops to his knees before her, to at first engulf a nipple, and then to nearly pull her entire tit inward with strong, wet, audible suction.

Yes indeed, let it be known: Curt Wild is a _fucking_ breast man.

Oh god, this is killing me. What in all _motherfucking_ hell have I done? Only gone and reintroduced him to the one thing he apparently wants more than life itself, more than heroin even- _tits _! It's all I can do to stop myself from ripping open the door and clobbering her.

Naturally, she moans and cries and writhes about in ecstasy as he goes about, feverishly devouring her, and then practically leaps into the air when his hand slides downward between her legs.

Well, whatever qualms he may have had about this setup, certainly appear to have vanished. Now the qualms are all mine. I feel sick.

Swiftly he picks her up by the waist, plants her down on the built in bench seat, and kneels before her again, and for what purpose? Yet another rigorous, several-minute tit worship session, all while she squirms and squeals in near-orgasmic tones, just to torment me further.

How could he have stood to be with me at all? Seeing that I'm missing the one, or rather, _two_ most essential ingredients? Did he long for them when he went up my body? Dream of them?

Stop it! You asked him, no you _made_ him do this ! You _cannot_ fucking complain now, wanker! Serves you right!

But I _did_ mean what I said! I _do_ want him to be happy, more than anything. I want to bring him pleasure and peace and bliss, and _all_ that I said. It's true.

So … why is this tearing me to bits?

Both of his hands are now grabbing her ankles, and pushing upwards so that her feet rest on the bench, knees spread wide.

Oh god.

He kisses her with passion, while his thumb slides up and down her, I'm _quite_ sure by now, sopping wet pussy.

FUCKING bitch! I'm leaving!

No! You can't! That was the only way he finally agreed! He made you promise to stay with him through it.

Arghghgggggggggggghhhhhhhh!

And now … fantastic! … wonderful! Christmas day has arrived! He's buried his face and hasn't come up for air for what feels like 20 minutes, all while she's bucking and screaming out swears like a Spanish sailor.

Yet another thing my body's missing!

Oh, _why_ can I not see the beauty in this? It _is_ a beautiful thing, to see him consumed, no, overwhelmed, with passion, with lust. But I imagined myself gushing with love and awe, tears rolling down my cheeks to watch him 'in motion', as I'd told him, driven by hunger and need. Happy and proud that I'd been so unselfish! Where is that person? Where _is_ he, goddamit ?

A sudden switch, and now _he's_ sitting on the bench, and I have a clear view of his face. He looks blissful indeed. Eyes squeezed tight, mouth open as she plants herself in his lap, and slides downward, enveloping him, cock rapidly disappearing from view, and then reappearing, disappearing, and then reappearing … etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.!

Curt's cock. MY cock. The one that belongs to ME. The one that's shot off in my hands. The one that's been in my mouth and deep inside my ass.

Now … deep inside her body.

Ah, the convenience of a nice, _naturally lubricated _cavity! Surely now erased from his memory is any thought of cold, unsexy, 'hard-on killing' vaseline.

Well congratulations you bloody stupid, colossally moronic idiot! It was _really smart_ to remind him. Good work! He will _never_ look at you twice now!

And then I flip back again: Maybe it _was_ smart to remind him! Maybe this _is_ what he needs! The images flash through my mind: Curt & Bianca, hand in hand, eloping to Madrid, or flying off to Barcelona for a traditional Spanish wedding, her large, close-knit family in tow, who embrace him as one of their own. Curt, in pajamas, face down on the bed pouring over his Spanish lessons, throwing out phrases that she lovingly, patiently corrects. Curt at the breakfast table, healthy and content, cooing over a plate of her warm homemade bread, his addictions and demons a thing of the distant past, something that he feels surely must have happened to someone else.

The painful reality being … I cannot offer him any of this. Normalcy, wholesomeness, balance. Maybe he loves me, or he thinks he does, simply because he's so bloody fractured and needy. Maybe he loves me, or thinks he does, because I'm the first person to come along who hasn't used him, for sex, for drugs, what have you.

My heart is positively splitting.

A sudden shift, and he is moving to stand. She leaps off of him at the last second, almost falling backward. He lifts and presses her backward into the glass wall- directly in front of me.

He grips her hips and pulls forward a bit, plunges, and begins moving within her.

And then, out of the blue … his eyes raise, and meet mine.

I'm stunned by the sudden connection and quickly assume the best poker face I can muster. I hardly want him to know how poorly I've handled this, what an absolute tragedy and disaster I feel it's been, how much irreparable harm I know it's done to what we have. To what we _had_.

I don't want him to see it in my face, in my eyes, that I know it's over.

There he remains though, looking directly, deeply, intently; unwavering, even for a moment, as he thrusts himself forward into her body. And for the first time ever, I'm finding it immensely uncomfortable to hold his gaze. Something has been broken between us.

God, I want to die.

It will be over soon. Within the hour, or surely by tomorrow, he will have made his polite excuses, and left. I won't hear from him again.

And now … his eyes have shut and lids have begun their gentle, involuntary flutter, the telltale signs of his pending orgasm. I study his face. I want to remember this, to burn it into my brain.

I notice something odd, though. She is sticking her first finger deep into her mouth, and rotating it. It is not until I then see her slide it low, back round his waist and straight downward, that I leap out of my chair.

In a split second, his eyes have shot open and he is catapulted backward, inadvertently carrying her with him. He pushes forcefully against her, shoving her roughly into the glass, his face a mask of pure terror and rage. His lips curl into a snarl and he screams so that we both jump in place:

"_NO_ !"

His face is crimson, every vein popping, eyes suddenly bloodshot. He approaches, seething, and she flinches back.

"GET THE FUCK _OUTTA_ HERE !" He rages, voice cracking from the sudden force of air.

I run for the shower door, horrified, afraid of what he might do.

"Curt !"

He doesn't acknowledge me. His entire body is trembling. His eyes have boiled over, tears stream down his cheeks, glaring crazily at the girl.

"BEFORE I FUCKING _KILL_ YOU !"

She scrambles past me, sobbing, bewildered, terrified, running out the door.

His eyes dart over my shoulder. He pushes me out of the way and lunges for what he sees laying on the counter: his razor.

I'm shaking. "What are you doing?"

His voice is soft. He grabs it and rips out the blade …

"What I should have done a long time ago."

… and raises it to his neck.

I dive on top of him. We tumble to the floor and the blade falls. He rolls a punch into my ribs and scurries for it. I kick it across the room with my feet. He scrambles to stand and I manage to trip him. He falls backward, on the tile next to me, and I flip myself over, landing hard, leaning with momentum, with every last ounce, into his upturned wrists.

His face is twisted and swollen, unrecognisable, the beams of his pale, beautiful blue eyes turned black with rage and pain and humiliation. I have to force myself to see that this is actually Curt.

"I want you to listen to me," I eventually manage to pant out, voice quivering, as he resists, writhing and repeatedly pushing upward before falling back in frustration. How I manage to keep him in check at all, considering the differences in our weight and strength levels, I can only attribute to sheer, panic-fueled adrenalin.

"LISTEN TO ME!" I shout into his face. I'm gasping from the effort. "Curt, I love you … Do you HEAR ME? I … LOVE YOU! And … there is no … POSSIBLE fucking way, … on this entire EARTH, … you just mean … _far_ too much to me … for you to even … consider …"

His eyes fill, and his face softens and then splits into a grimace as a sob escapes his lips. I drop to him and cradle his head with both hands. My gut clenches hard. He's bawling now, inconsolable, into my neck, torso shaking violently. It's absolutely unbearable, the worst thing I've ever seen or felt, like a hundred pointed daggers twisting into my spleen.

"Shhhh. It's okay." I caress the back of his head. "I promise. Shhhh."

For long moments he wails out in pain, his cries echoing and bouncing off the tiles. It's absolutely unbearable; almost beyond what I can stand. And I feel so bloody goddam helpless- I can only hold and pet him, when what I really want to do is slam my own head, hard, into the wall.

It _was_ my idea, _I_ created the situation that led to this, _I_ forced him into it.

Please forgive me, Curt. Please forgive me.

After what feels like an hour I'm able to convince him to let me help him up. I walk him gingerly out of the room and over to the bed. He curls toward himself, still sobbing quietly. I climb in next to him and pull the blanket over. I caress and kiss his shoulder. Tears fall freely from my eyes.

* * *

><p>When I'm sure he's completely out, and snoring, I inch my way carefully out of the bed and creep across the floor to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I flip on the overhead light and begin scouring the floor for the motherfucking razor. The room is a complete tip, broken shards of glass from the smashed hand mirror, an overturned shampoo bottle spilling out blue guck, towels scattered, a magazine rack on it's side. It looks like there was a fight in here tonite, and there was.<p>

Finally, there it is, against the wall, next to the bloody chair, the one I'd been sitting on in order to watch him fuck someone else.

What kind of twisted monster am I? I seduce him into it, then begin being seduced, no, bewitched, myself, into this magical fairyland fantasy that is is somehow the Answer to all of his woes … only to have it take the most sickening, nightmarish turn imaginable. My head is banging fierce, too hard to try to make any possible sense of it. I open the screen to toss the blade out, and creep back to bed.

I need so badly to sleep, to put this day behind me, but all I can see is the terrified, ghastly look on his face, as the memory of the rape is instantly triggered. Why? In god's name _why,_ _of all things on this earth did it have to do that ?_

Softly as possible, I curl my body forward into his, laying a protective arm across his torso, and fall asleep.

* * *

><p>I awaken and bolt upright. He's not there. The clock's glowing numbers read 5:05am. Far as I can recall, we went to bed after 3. OH fuck, on no, oh please … he hasn't … he hasn't gone and done it while I was asleep? I jump out of bed, run for the bathroom, throw on the switch and spin round in a circle. Empty. Turn quickly, run down the stairs, fly through every room, calling and calling out his name, voice high pitched and shaking, check the back deck, the jacuzzi, run inside, turn over every piece of furniture, every cushion, every pillow and rug, sweating, sobbing, in absolute terror of finding him, throat slashed, laying upright in his own blood, eyes staring.<p>

Nothing.

He's just left then? He can't; he has no money and we're on a bloody island! Only way out of here is to … I bolt outside, sprinting for the water, illuminated by the strength of a particularly bright moon. Did he hurl himself into the ocean? Is this where I'll find his body, washed up by the waves, bloated and discoloured ?

Nothing!

Exhausted, petrified, head banging relentlessly, I collapse in a heap onto the lounge chair, crying, mind racing. What if he ran back to town to go find Bianca, to make good on his threat ? (Or worse, to elope?) What if his body is still out there, in the ocean, right now? It might wash up right in front of me while I'm sitting here! My eyes dart, panicked, searching the shoreline, and there in the soft glow of the moon … I spot him. In the distance.

Swimming.

Turning and diving, coming back up, and then, momentarily still, floating on his back, allowing the waves to gently carry him. Quite obviously _not_ trying to drown himself, though I've been freaked out so badly that …, I mean, could he not have left a bleeding _note_?

I'm struck that he looks exactly as he had the day we arrived, like a boy who grew up on the Mediterranean, spending his days on the beaches building sand castles and collecting shells, swimming like a fish, or rather, a beautiful dolphin; a complete natural.

"Who knew!" I say out loud. "Curt Wild and nature," I hold out two fingers, "they're like _this_."

I walk slowly upstairs into the bedroom to retrieve him a soft white terricloth robe, and there I find the bloody note, on his pillow, which, in my panic, I'd entirely missed. Messiest of scrawl, crumpled, ripped out sheet of paper, single word:

"SWIMMING"

So he _had_ fucking told me! He _knew_ I'd be panicked if I found the bed empty- he was at least clearheaded enough to think of that …

HUGE … long … sigh.

Outside I wait for him with the robe and a large clean towel. The breeze is warm, but constant, and I cover myself. And in the 30 minutes or so that it takes him to finally come back in … I fall dead asleep

I awaken to him trying to carefully dislodge the pile of robe from my lap. I stand, throw it round his torso, and slide my arms underneath. We hold eachother in silence. He has every reason to despise me, to hate and to blame me for the ruin that was last night, and still bloody well might, but for now, there is this nourishment, this moment of peace, that we both badly need.

"You're shivering."

He clears his throat. "Water was a bit cool. Felt good."

"How long were you out there?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. An hour."

"You must have froze! You should at least wear swimming trunks."

Clears his throat again. "I um, I really wanted it to just … wash over me, completely."

I kiss his chest.

"Curt.

"Mmm?"

"I'm so incredibly sorry–"

"–It wasn't your fault, Brian."

"But–"

He releases me and looks.

"–Listen to me- it wasn't. I'm the one that flipped out."

His eyes shift to the chairs.

"Let's talk, okay?"

We sit, and each of us reach out, instantly, simultaneously, to hold hands. This one small act, tiny, really, after the violence and mayhem of last night, after the terrified search for him this morning, feels as big, as all encompassing, to me, as the entire bloody universe.

He turns to me.

"This morning I woke up and I just felt … numb. I'm so familiar with that feeling, you have no idea, for years, and I'm so fucking sick of it, and I suddenly thought to myself, you know what? It's the _numbness_ that's the fucking problem! That makes me so fragile! It was for the _numbness_, the pursuit of that, of total nothingness, of wanting so badly _not_ to exist, that I did junk all those years! It just suddenly all made sense. I mean, think about it- how much more can you _not_ want to exist, than to like, willingly, and repeatedly puncture your own goddam veins and arteries with what you know is real, actual poison?

At first I thought … okay well my literal first thought this morning, if I'm honest, was, how can I off myself? How can I finally get this over with? That is why I initially thought of the ocean. I played it over in my mind: I'll just walk out there, and float and let it carry me away, and it'll be painless and I'll fall asleep and be dead. No blood to clean up, no mess, no pain- won't feel a thing.

And then I realized, shit, it will probably be cold out there, especially if I'm taken out a long way, and I'll be shivering like nuts. You can see how much planning I was doing. And then it just sort of all came together in my head and I saw it clearly for like the first time, the numbness, I mean. Even though I may be off smack, _mentally_, it's still got a grip on me, because I'm still pursuing the fucking numbness. So then I suddenly realized, I _need_ to feel the cold! I _need_ to go through that portal and feel things and stop being afraid all the time!

I mean, can you believe it? How ridiculous is it that here's a guy planning his own suicide, which, shit, I've done dozens of times, and what was I worried about? That aww gee, it might feel chilly! Completely twisted and backwards- like my entire life has been, I swear to christ.

But anyway, so when I got out to the water, I was so fucking relieved it was cold, well sorta cold- nothing like Lake Michigan, but, I mean I actually wished it had been a little colder, but, it just felt like, I mean, wow! It was making my nerve endings pop, and the salt water in the waves was rubbing me raw, and it just felt … fantastic! Like the closest I've maybe ever come to a religious fucking experience, or something."

I squeeze his hand and kiss it. "I'm so pleased. I'm so relieved."

"But see, here's the thing, Brian. I also realized, it's the exact same thing with … what happened to me …"

He turns his head in sudden disgust with himself, and then spits out the words.

"I can't even fucking say it!"

He turns back. I can see that his eyes have watered slightly.

"What happened when I was … raped," he sighs and pauses for a moment, "it did the same thing to me- it numbed me up; literally froze me solid, physically. And it cut me off from feeling things- mentally _and_ physically. Wonderful job of doing that. For a long time I didn't go near _anyone_, sexually, or sure as fuck let anyone near me. I didn't even beat off- never, not once, never even crossed my mind, for _months_ and _months_, I'm talking. It just cut me off, completely, from my own body- like the blood flow, the circulation to my lower half just … ceased. I mean, how sick is that? You can't be cut off from your fucking body, it's YOU, and yet … I absolutely was."

I've grabbed his hand and am holding it with both of mine. I'm fighting myself, willing the tears not to come. No! Stay back you bastards!

"So, when I was floating out there just now, enjoying the feel of the cool water and the salt, the taste of it in my mouth, some of it even got into my eye and it burned a little and I didn't even mind, and suddenly I was like, fuckin EUREKA ! THAT is the key! Finally! I might have gone my whole life without knowing!"

He looks at me, semi-triumphant, expectant.

"I just need to reattach myself to myself. I'm halfway there- my dick eventually came around, fuck knows; I just need to join up the other half."

I'm squinting, "I, I'm sorry. I don't entirely follow," I blunder.

"Brian," he entwines his fingers into mine, looks directly in my eyes and speaks tenderly. "I want you to make love to me."

I hesitate. He continues.

"I mean … up the ass." At another time I will laugh at Curt's version of a romantic proposal, but for now I have an immediate flashback of the rage he flew into with Bianca not 3 hours ago, hurling her into the wall, bloodshot eyes, veins popping. I stammer.

"Oh. But, god, Curt, I mean, wouldn't that, wouldn't you, doesn't it–"

"–If we go real slow, I think it might work."

"Umm … well, are you … I mean, entirely … sure?"

"No!, but Brian, … If I don't at least _try_ and replace that memory, make myself feel whatever I'm going to feel, instead of running from it my whole goddam life, if I don't, like, _substitute_ it with something totally positive and gentle and beautiful, instead of, for my body, it _only_ being associated with fear, with something threatening and negative and … violent- someone taking something from me, someone trying to hurt me, then it will literally rule over me for like, the rest of my entire life. Do you see?"

"Yes," I say, when what I'm thinking is: "But for pity's sake PLEASE let it be some other bloke who breaks the ice."

"But Curt, I'd be … I'd be so afraid to … hurt you. I'd just be … devastated. You can't imagine–"

"–Brian, I've already been hurt, badly, in there- injured. You know the story. There is _nothing_ you could do that could even approach that."

"But, what about tonite, … Bianca–"

"–That was totally different! She completely … surprised me. She didn't get my permission. She's not someone I even fucking know, let alone trust, and then she just … forced it in, or at least, … tried to."

He stammers.

"I'm just, I mean … you can't … it won't …"

"That's what I mean. How do we know that–"

"We _don't_ know, Brian! But I just feel like … I _have_ to at least try! I _have_ to re-write the script, or it will _never_ change!"

He sighs. His eyes have filled again.

"Plus, I mean, I just … miss it! I crave it! You have no idea. I've even had dreams about it- really vivid; and then I wake up hard, and I'm alone, and I turn over in bed and beat off, imagining there's someone back there."

My heart clenches. My eyes flood.

"And I think, maybe … with you, if I'm just … _relaxed_ enough. If I know I'm with someone who cares, who knows the history, who won't, who will–"

I squeeze his hand.

"–I will."

He stops and looks at me, eyes suddenly bright.

"You will? Really?"

I smile huge. A tear drops onto my cheek.

"Yes."

He leaps from his chair and engulfs me in a full-bodied embrace.


	8. No Matter What

Hand in hand, we climb the stairs and watch the sunrise through the large bedroom window. He is wide eyed, like a child, excited, pointing, almost giddy over the enormous ball rising in the distance, it's soft orange rays of light increasingly filling the room. I pretend to watch, but instead, as I do so often these days, I turn my eyes to watch him. The warm glow colours his face and glints off the achingly lovely blonde stubble on his jaw and neck- the neck that, not 4 hours ago, he had tried to slash.

In the last little while we've been through enough trauma, drama and sleep deprivation to last, surely, our two lifetimes. I pull him away from the window and onto the bed, where we collapse, wrap our bodies around each other, and go to sleep.

* * *

><p>In the early afternoon he awakens, and is rested but quiet. He eats a simple breakfast down on the deck. Upstairs, I draw a bath in the over sized claw-foot soaking tub, into which I pour most of a bottle of essential oils, something which is supposed to have magical calming properties, having supposedly been blessed by the Nepalese mountain goddess, Tupai.<p>

I fill the large pitcher/basin with warm water and light the candles round the tub before retreating to the bedroom to close the curtains, poke at the fire to keep it going, and then endlessly check and recheck the lube, for warmth. It is of the flavored/edible variety, and considering it's special significance today, I don't want it too hot.

I look round and realize that at any other time we would each double over laughing at the preposterously romantic setting, but today … it's dead serious. I need and intend for him to be as calm and warm and relaxed as he's literally ever been. The stakes are, otherwise, too high.

* * *

><p>He ascends the stairs and enters the bathroom, taking my hand. His face is reserved but I sense something. He's too quiet. I stroke his cheek and jaw and speak softly.<p>

"Are you okay, my sweet?"

God, I let it slip. It's the first time I've blurted it out – the silliest, corniest, girliest, most old fashioned pet name that I've found myself calling him, in my head, for weeks now. He's either too distracted to notice, or, I'm hoping, not too overly disgusted.

He sighs.

"I didn't wanna tell you."

I look at him.

"Have you … changed your mind?"

"No, I'm just … really nervous."

My heart swells. I squeeze his hand.

"I know."

I want to tell him how gentle and infinitesimally slow we'll go, how incredibly relaxed he'll be, how he'll almost be falling asleep, but I can't bring myself to say anything that might dismiss or disrespect what he's feeling. I have to remember that he's the only one here who's been violated.

I take his robe and he climbs carefully in. The water rises to his neck. He leans back against the built-in cushion, and shuts his eyes.

"How is that?"

"Okay. Nice."

"Not too hot?"

"No."

"The oil will make your skin soft."

He sits in silence, pondering whatever images are behind his eyes. I let him soak for several minutes before reaching for the large soft loofah sponge which I dunk under the water and run gently along his shoulders, arms, chest and with a slight forward lean, his back. I then drop the sponge and begin a delicate massage of his neck and shoulders. He is quite stiff and tight under my fingers, quite tense, but gradually, I'm relieved to see the telltale sign that it seems to be loosening him up: When inching closer to where the shoulder meets the neck, his head will tip, almost as if by instinct or reflex, slightly toward that direction.

After several more minutes' soak, I reach for the pitcher. He leans forward and the warm water flows, plastering the hair to his neck and face. Next, I lather up with shampoo and run my fingers carefully through his scalp, massaging, kneading and softly scratching. For this I get his first spoken, or rather, muttered word in 10 minutes:

"Fuck."

I smile.

After a few more minutes' soak, I rinse my hands and grasp the pitcher. He leans ahead and I stand to pour out the remainder of the water, rinsing away the soapy foam.

I reach round to push the hair from his face and then run a towel over his head to absorb the extra dampness. His eyes remain softly shut.

I lean to kiss the top of his head.

"I'll be back."

This is two-fold. I want him to sit peacefully, undisturbed, for at least a few more minutes, and I also need to check on the fire, which is fine, and the lube, which when I test it, is too bloody hot.

"Shit." I move it to the bedside table's warming drawer to allow it to cool, but not cool off entirely. I sit on the bed and rest a minute, pondering. I haven't felt overly nervous to this point but it's really starting to creep up. Several times I awoke from a sound sleep and pictured it all, and in my dozy haze it somehow seemed simple, entirely logistically feasible.

The problem, of course, is that what we're dealing with here isn't mechanics. Curt's body can only recall the trauma and for it's own protection, automatically shuts down, even if he doesn't want it to. The mind-body connection has been cut, or at least, interrupted. This is more than mental, it's subconscious, and involuntary on his part. Knee jerk. Instinct.

Suddenly I am seeing his head in the tub just now, tipping to one side- knee jerk, instinct, and it hits me: if I had told him to keep his head straight up, would he have been able to? Even if he had felt the inclination to tilt it? But what if he'd been traumatized there? Would it still work? And how does this translate to anal muscles, which, from what I recall in biology class, are among the body's strongest?

How the bloody hell should I know? Okay, idiot, think! What do muscles, anywhere in the body, do? What is their sole function? They merely expand and contract- tense, and release. Okay, now in Curt's case, they are apparently over-tensing which is causing some sort of … frozen spasm. But if he could somehow focus on just making them do their job- tensing and releasing, would it maybe serve as a reminder to his body that he's the one in charge?

In truth, I don't have a single bloody clue, but, especially as I have no other ideas … it's worth a try.

* * *

><p>I approach quietly. He is motionless, eyes shut. One arm rests along the edge of the tub.<p>

"Curt?", I whisper.

His eyes open.

"Mmm?"

I reach for his hand.

"Okay in there?"

"Ya, just … sleepy."

I pull out the plug and the water begins draining.

He stands and steps out onto the mat. I wrap a large soft towel around him with my arms, and can't stop myself from holding him momentarily, before drying him off and running it a final time over his hair.

We clasp hands and exit the room. He stops suddenly, surveying the scene. It's broad daylight but the curtains and shades are drawn tight, the only light in the room being the warm orange glow next to the bed.

"Fireplace, wow."

"I finally got it going. Do you think it's … silly?"

"No."

He looks at me.

"Do you?"

His hair is a damp and beautiful mess. He looks relaxed and serene, radiant, in the flickering light.

"No."

His eyes drop to study my lips. We lean in to kiss. His mouth is moist and warm; and folds easily over mine. Before long our tongues are swirling.

Why is it, I wonder. Why? That the times between kisses seem so bloody long?

Goddamit wait, though! STOP! This wasn't part of The Plan!

I pull back suddenly, (much harder to do than it even sounds), put a hand to my chest and take a few deep breaths.

"Curt," clearing my throat. "I'm going to give you a massage."

"Umm, okay, but didn't I just have one?"

"In the tub? No, I'm talking, a real massage- full body – head to toe."

"Wow, okay. I've never actually … had one."

"Really?"

"Well … not a _legitimate_ one, anyway," I hear him mutter under his breath.

* * *

><p>I have him lay face down, hips placed over a high pillow, and kneel by him on the mattress, momentarily surveying his beautiful prone form. Wide back, clear smooth skin, not a smidgen of fat on him; perfect bloody … arse. Yes, okay, we <em>do<em> remember why we're here now ?

I slide down the mattress and start at the other end with a slow, gentle roll and twist of each toe between thumb and forefinger, which I know from experience is positively spellbinding, possibly because it's so unexpected.

"Fuck", he murmurs in approval.

I move up to the soles of his feet, which are rough and callused, applying firm pressure to extinguish any ticklish sensation. Then to the back of his calf, digging in.

He moans softly in response.

I pull a leg aside and kneel in between. My arms straighten and hands frame his left thigh, then his right, fingers bent and taut, slowly pressing in, and upward; and back again.

He exhales at the same pace.

Skipping momentarily over the arse, I lay my hands on his lower back. His skin is still warm and supple from the tub.

I start with the heel of one hand, moving slowly, straight up the spine to his neck, and repeat, then return over the same area with the heels of both hands, then again, with splayed taut fingers. At his neck my hands split and slide up over his shoulders, and then back down again.

Midway through he raises his head high off the pillow, and then plunks it down again at the end with a long, drawn out, shuddering groan.

We both laugh. Good! It means he's relaxed.

I climb up to give him a quick peck on the cheek but as I do, he's turning his body, and our cocks absently brush. A surge shoots through me.

"That was absolutely fucking amazing. Every second of it. Thank you."

I look down at his lips, which are positively intoxicating, and lean close … (NO! We have work to do !) … before jerking my head successfully away … only to have him grasp me by the back of my neck, pull downward, and kiss me with fury.

"Okay … I'm sorry. Enough … stalling."

… And then flips back over onto his belly.

I inhale and exhale slowly, willing myself to relax, and lean to open the warming drawer. I place the bottle on top. It's perfect- not too hot. I squeeze a drop onto my fingertip and take a taste- vanilla, not bad.

I slide between his knees and observe those beautiful strong buttocks, which sit high up over the pillow. I push away thoughts of the attack, of the people who were here beforehand, and since, and of my own growing arousal. Reminder: This is about Curt. I want only to heal him, to bring him peace.

Focus. Start low, drag the muscle firmly upward, over, and then out. Now both together.

He moans and shifts beneath me, muttering.

I repeat the process, but slower, deeper; up, over, out. Up, over, out.

His head momentarily raises off the pillow as I crest the upward curve, and then drops back again as I move beyond it, releasing his breath.

"Oh god. Again, please."

Beaming, I lower and plant a quick kiss. It strikes me that, aside from the attack, this may very likely be the first time he's been touched here without having to negotiate, to spread himself, without having to give something up.

I lean forward and start the process over, slower, harder. When I stop he begs me to do it again, and I comply, twice more. Each time he emits a loud breathy moan, ending with a great flourish.

Perfection. He's laughing, he's loose, this couldn't have gone more to plan. I have a hand on his right cheek and as I reach past his head for the lube I suddenly feel it tense.

Fuck.

"Brian?"

"Yes?"

"I can't help it, I feel great, but … I'm still nervous."

I kiss his lower back.

"It's okay."

"I just don't want you to think it's any reflection on you, or on how I actually feel."

I kiss his left cheek. It too has tensed.

"I don't."

"Because more than anything in the world right now, I want you inside me."

My heart swells and yes … my cock twitches.

"I know."

I lower to kiss his inner thigh.

"Curt?"

"Yes?"

"There is something you can do if you get tense, inside, I mean."

"Okay."

I'm trying to sound confident, like I know what the fuck I'm talking about, but my voice is shaking. I might be more nervous than him.

"Your muscles are really powerful but they're simple- they can only do two things, squeeze, and release."

I caress his hips, and talk into the small of his back.

"Okay."

"So if you find you're tensing, just try focusing on doing that- I think it might help."

"Okay. Christ, it sounds so fucking simple though."

"Ya", I say, unhelpfully.

I look down at the hand holding the bottle and notice it's trembling.

"Um, this stuff is nice and warm; … is it okay …?"

He pauses a moment before answering.

"… Ya." His voice is small.

I squirt some into the crevice, and my stomach does flips. There's no getting around it- we're at the precipice and I'm absolutely bloody terrified.

"Brian?"

"Yes?"

"I love you, no matter what."

I lean in close.

"I love you too."


	9. And Then There Is This

I start at a very favorite spot, where I've many a time held on, the achingly lovely place where the base of his cheeks curves down to meet his thigh. Slowly I move upward, kissing, caressing, massaging along the way, gently inching his legs further apart. At the crest of the hill I move toward the middle, and spy it for the first time, the innocent pale pink rosebud- shy, shut tight.

The images come flooding- no stopping them. Forced entry, ruptured flesh, pain, blood … just monstrous, barbaric, unthinkable. I have a momentary rescue/revenge fantasy- swooping down exactly in time, turning and crushing their skulls, and then with bare hands, their balls.

With renewed determination I grasp the bottle and squirt, watching as it pools up momentarily in the center, before sliding downward in either direction.

I lower, and dip my tongue softly, gently, along and gradually … into the pool.

His response is instantaneous. He gasps hard, and lifts his head and shoulders off the pillow.

Is this is good or bad? We had agreed beforehand that it would be too clinical, too wooden and plodding to narrate my way through every step, but perhaps that wasn't such a bad idea. I naively pictured this as seamless, flowing.

"Y'okay?" I whisper, trying to sound calm.

His voice is tense.

"Ya."

I kiss his cheek, unconvinced.

"You sure? Please, Curt, you must tell me if–"

"–No, it's not that, it's just … it took me by surprise. No one's ever … I just never … felt that before."

Bloody hell. Never? Of _all_ the people he's been with, not ONE … ?

I re-squirt the warm liquid and dip my tongue, slowly circling the bud's perimeter before returning, gingerly, to the center.

The laugh-gasp that instantly bursts forth is like a mix of delight and torment, like his foot has fallen asleep and he's trying to walk. I'm so pleased, so relieved, that I laugh with him. I've never done a virgin before, and I can tell I'm going to like it.

I circle and lick and tongue and nudge at him, and in return I'm rewarded with the most amazing responses- everything from high pitched shriek-whoops of "Fuck! That's absolutely amazing!", to strangled cough/gasps and giggled curses, to deep, sensual shuddering moans and full body writhing, particularly as I shape my tongue into a point and _flick_, slowly coaxing him open.

As the minutes pass, his voice lowers to a hoarse unintelligible growl, a thin sheen of sweat and rosy colour spread up his torso, his lower back arches sharply upward (insanely sexy- that), and most beautiful, most telling of all: the writhing intensifies, that is to say, it slows, to an unbearably erotic slither, which is just impossibly wonderful to be in the middle of, quite literally, although there is a bit of 'follow the moving target', but who on earth is complaining ? It is obvious that he is absolutely bloody _smitten_ with these heretofore unknown sensations and may have just happened upon his new favorite thing in the world, the secret, magical universe of rimming, or as I prefer to call, the 'Inverted Blowjob'.

Thus I can't bring myself to stop. I'm floating, flying, losing track of date and time, of my own bloody name, lost in the glory of Him, the uber-responsive, demonically sensual being that is Curt Wild, every last pore, every last beautiful ounce–

"–Brian", he whispers hoarsely.

I jolt, shaken out of my giddy, over the top reverie.

"Yes?"

He speaks between pants.

"I'm kinda … going … fucking insane here …

I gloat momentarily. Yes, thank you. I _am_ incredible.

"… But I really don't wanna come yet."

Translation: Fuck me, you idiot. What exactly are you waiting for?

"Oh."

I blink hard, mortified for having lost sight of the whole bloody Point.

A downward glance reveals a flushed, partially opened eye; nice, but not a smidgen near where we need to be.

"How … how bad is it?"

His voice is low, weary.

"Umm, another minute and I'm spewing all over the mattress."

Mother! My cock twitches terribly. The impact of indelicate images, at such delicate times …

"I see."

My voice quivers.

I grasp the lube and, holding my hand over the bud, squeeze. It drips off my fingers and forms a pool below. I squirt again, drenching my pinky, and lower it to gently circle … round and round and round and round the pool, before crossing directly over the eye.

He jolts in place, whole body stiffening.

Fuck. We cannot have gotten this far and have it fail. Who knows if, psychologically, we might only have this one chance.

I resume the circling and lower to nudge the eye with my tongue, which responds as before, a lovely trusting flower bud, opening for the sun.

I re-drench my pinky and resume the soft circling, hesitating at first, afraid like fuck, however gently, to barge in, so instead I turn my knuckle towards him and nudge it, bouncing softly.

No matter, he jolts again, and even gasps this time. Are we going to have to start completely over? He's too bloody … tuned in! Too focused. He needs distracting.

… _Off_ goes the lightbulb.

"Curt."

"Yes", he responds impatiently, voice wound tight.

I'm licking him open again, speaking in between.

"Did you say … you're almost … ready to come?"

He clears his throat.

"Ya."

My pinky resumes it's circling.

"All over the mattress? It excites you … getting … tongue fucked?"

He gulps down a breath before responding.

"Yes."

"It feels good?"

"Yes."

Distracting him with my lapping, circling tongue and insistent questions, I manage to sneak my pinky inward slightly, maybe a 1/4 inch, just to the first knuckle. He does flinch, and his innards grip, no, crush me, but I keep speaking right over it.

"And so your cock is hard right now?

Ouch! Definitely crushing. I may lose a finger.

His voice is breathy.

"Yhes."

I shift into my best, sexiest gravel-tone.

"How hard? Tell me."

He turns his head slowly on the pillow, not otherwise responding. I keep picking at him.

"Hard as I am right now …?"

_Inward_ my poor finger goes, subtly, gently as can be, another 1/4 inch or so, tongue softening the blow. He doesn't flinch quite as bad, but I'm not exactly welcomed. Through it all, I blather on.

"… Purple? Aching? Tell me."

"Hard."

"Tell me."

His voice is strained.

"Fucking hard."

"Rock hard?"

"Yhes."

"Throbbing?"

"Yhes."

"Does it feel good?"

"Yhes."

"And you're almost ready to shoot?"

He swallows.

"Yes."

Somewhere in the middle of all this my finger completes it's painful journey, and is buried to the hilt. I want to kick up my heels in joy that we've come this far, but it's too early to celebrate and … it hurts too fucking much.

"What if I slapped a cock ring on you right now? You wouldn't be able to come, would you?"

His head is turning slowly again.

"Would you?"

The hair on his neck is drenched. His voice is strangled.

"No …"

The muscles haven't lessened their grip and my finger is turning blue. Under my breath, way under, so as to not distract him from the distraction, I whisper.

"Curt, squeeze and release."

And then immediately resume the filthy-talk.

Mercifully, the muscles release for a moment, only to squeeze again, and then let go, and then squeeze, back, and forth, over and over. That he's making them work for him at all, that he's conquered the freeze, despite the existence of this invading body, is _everything_- simply HUGE, an enormously positive, hopeful sign. I want to shout and jump straight up into the air … if it weren't for the terrible vice grip making me wince in pain every few seconds. I will sacrifice a finger for you, Curt, I will, but you'd better loosen up by the time we get to my dick …

More lube, squirted and drizzled, coating him, and now … the ring finger. My tongue coaxes the perimeter as I introduce the tip, gently as I can. Clearly for him, though, there is no 'gently' here – everything feels like an invasion, and he stiffens and jolts again. It breaks my heart, but we can't stop at this point. We have to make way, if there's to be any chance of success.

I babble on, praying that my incessant dirty talk, which seems to be helping, actually is.

"Curt."

"Yes", he responds quickly. Well I've certainly gotten his attention.

"You want that, don't you? Your cock … all swollen and sore, oozing, ready to burst, like that time when I … "

_Inward_ I push. Here is the real test. Pinkies are one thing, certainly the equivalent of a pipe cleaner compared with a cock, but the sudden addition of this second, larger finger …

"Oh ghod!" He gasps. His body jolts, but then, after a minute … slithers a bit, in place.

Hmmm. Reflexively, his inner muscles expand and contract without missing a beat. Necessary yes, and my own bloody idea to begin with, but Christ, it does smart.

And now, without warning, the talk is coming my way … extremely breathy and worn.

"The time, when you …"

I scramble, blurting.

"When I … gripped hold of your cock … Do you remember?"

"Yes- tell me."

As I speak, I push inward another inch, and to my astonishment and glee … he slithers backward, forcing it further. Hip hip HOO-fucking-RAY ! Sound the horns ! Ring the church bells !

"Um, yes, well," I'm so excited I can't think. "Oh god, well–"

"–You grabbed my dick, just as I was coming and–"

"–Yes, and I squeezed–"

"–Really hard, and it felt …" I push ahead again, at the exact moment that he pushes back, taking both fingers fully.

"… Oh, god."

He is panting, struggling to speak, "It felt so fucking good, but … at the same time, it was … awful –"

Mercifully, the inner vice grip has loosened to some degree.

"–It ached. You could barely stand it."

I'm so incredibly turned on I too am having a hard time talking. I have to stop myself from leaping up and mounting him in one fell swoop, but I know that the magic number is … three. It will all come tumbling down if we move too quickly, and I'm in no mood to start over.

Warm, vanilla flavored/scented lube, lots of it, and, ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to the legendary, world famous Middle Finger.

I position the tip against him and can hear him holding his breath. Please god, if he can just take this one last digit, it will be all over, and I will happily slaughter you my first born child.

I look. The beautiful sweet bud is stretched tight, and my middle looks so bloody fat in comparison that I suddenly can't bring myself to push it through. What if I really hurt him? What if it all comes flooding back in that instant?

"What's wrong ?"

I reposition the finger, twice, stalling, but determined to do this … and then can't. He's growing antsy.

"Brian, what is it?"

I don't want to tell him.

"Brian–"

"–Curt, I'm afraid."

"It's okay."

I snap.

"No it's _not_ okay. I'm _terrified_ of hurting you!"

He slowly raises himself up onto all fours, hanging his head straight down, and sighs, then slams his fist suddenly into the wall ahead, shouting.

"MOTHERFUCKERS ! I should have _killed_ them !"

"Curt–"

"–This is _SO_ fucking humiliating, do you know that ? Mortifying! _I'm not some delicate fucking faggot piece of china!_"

"I know that!" I yell back, "But I love you and I refuse to hurt you!"

He jerks his hips forward, yanking my fingers out.

"What are you _doing_?" I demand.

He climbs off the bed. He begins walking away and answers softly, nonchalant.

"Beating off in the shower."

I grab him by the shoulder.

"No you are _not _!"

He jerks his arm away and goes to move past me.

"Fuck you, Brian."

My nostrils flare.

"Fuck ME?" I'm raging. I shove him hard. "No- FUCK _YOU_, you fucking bastard cunt!" He's in mid-step, caught off guard, and stumbles backward into the lamp, and then falls to the carpet.

I drop quickly.

He's holding his hand to the back of his head.

"Curt!"

I grab his other hand with both of mine.

"Are you okay? Tell me, you're okay !"

He looks at me momentarily, face stony, and then flips forward, pinning me firmly to the floor.

We pant into each other's faces. I struggle, not quite sure what is happening, expecting at any moment, yet again, to be hit.

His eyes lock with mine, and hold momentarily. He speaks softly.

"Fuck you," and lowers to clamp his mouth over mine in a fierce, extended, bruising kiss. Chaotic, sudden shifts in extremes of emotion- arousal, anger, fear, and yet our bodies writhe and slither, spit and sweat intermingling.

The weight in my head, the spacey confusion I feel, is like I've been drugged, and then there is this: I'm fighting and struggling with him still, even as our tongues twirl, even as our cocks slowly rub, even as I know I will come if this continues. Inexplicable, and yet on a primal, bone-marrow level, it clicks. It feels right and good and natural, his power over me, his hold of my arms, because it taps into instinct, into truth, into who we are.

He moves forward on the carpet and pulls me along underneath, maneuvering us next to the fire. The warm orange glow colours his face and dances in his eyes. He grabs for the lube and upends the bottle, drizzling it messily, impatiently, up and down our cocks, before tossing it to the far corner.

He sits up, straddles my torso, and shuts his eyes, leaning back. With one hand on the mantle and the other behind, he tilts his chin up, and lowers himself. His movement is slow, fluid. His face is serious, lips parted and tense. He doesn't breathe.

I bend my knees and curl myself upward towards him. I can feel the narrow passage fighting; he winces once or twice but stays with it, steady, calm, determined. In my mind I can see the blunt, swollen head piercing his flesh, slowly, reluctantly swallowed by his body, indeed, there is a struggle for every milimeter. He does feel impossibly tight, the muscles desperate to repell and protect and I'm fearful any moment of it all breaking down, but moreso I'm awash in genuine awe and wonder. What I'm witnessing, what I'm experiencing, what he's forcing himself to do is an act of love and faith and bravery and willpower of an extraordinary level. He seems in this moment, staring down and overpowering his most nightmare demons, almost superhuman to me.

At last he stops. His eyes open. He gulps down air, chest heaving, gazing intently at the wall ahead, for long moments.

I am buried deep. It is, praise the almighty gods, accomplished.

His eyes lower to mine; they are emotional. He brings his hand round and we interlock fingers. He raises them to his lips, which spread into a small, shy, heartbreakingly sweet grin.

There are few moments, I realize, when I love him more. Tempestuous and volatile as that love may be, completely bloody insane- senseless, maddening as it may fucking well be, it is real and fiercely felt and I will defend it to my dying day.

The story could end here, all doe eyed and romantic, but it would be only half-told. For in truth both the lust and the love rage and feed and drive off of each other- in sometimes unequal parts. We know only to yield ourselves, hand ourselves over, and it is there, magically, each time, washing over us, drowning us in it's wake.

He raises himself slowly upward. One hand clutches the mantle, the other is steadied by my hand. He holds himself extremely still … and then drops with force.

Mother!

We each shout out, heads thrown back, harsh air bursting forward from our lungs. I somehow hadn't anticipated the intensity of sensation that the tightness would bring. I'm squeezed, nearly strangled by the narrow passage, and I know I won't be able to stand much.

I reach for his cock, hoping to distract him momentarily, but he bats my hand away, raises himself up high, and drops hard, again, again, again, too caught up in the joy of what's been so long denied him.

I'm panting like a crazy man, right on the very edge. Please, for god's sake, _please_ after _all_ we've been through to get here, I cannot ruin it by coming prematurely. I squeeze his hand hard, to the point of pain. He winces and looks down at me.

"Top drawer," I manage to gasp, pointing my head in that direction.

He reaches and opens it, hands retrieving the only things in there: a pair of cock rings. He squints, studying them in front of his eyes, baffled.

I grab one from him and snap open the circle. "Oh," he says, half smiling.

"Right away", I plead. He maneuvers it carefully beneath and behind him, and shuts it round the base with a click.

I move to do the same but he has just been given a license to fuck without end, and is already too busy jolting himself up and down, repeatedly and deeply impaling himself. His face is a mask of sweaty, unparalleled bliss; I don't have the heart, nor the energy to interrupt him.

Meanwhile, as he continues, my cock, on the edge of ever-pending release, can now only swell further, which of course serves to increase the sensation for both of us. I'm caught in an intensely delicious cycle of perpetual 'just before' torture, with a bloke who shows absolutely no signs of letting up. The room, the house, the entire block, fill with our breathy exhalations, our desperately sensual grunts and gasps. I'm convinced anyone floating by on an ocean liner can bloody well hear us.

Just as my face is turning purple and my cock is about to bust thru the ring, he stops. His hand quickly drops to his cock to grasp the base. How he's been able to hold off is a sheer freak miracle, and yet he's decided he's still not ready. He looks down at me with foggy eyes and extraordinarily heavy lids and begins a slow, outrageously sexy, achingly beautiful reverse thrust, which serves to tug and pull at me in ingenious and devious ways. If not for the ring I'm convinced I would have come 18 times by now, and we are definitely at the point where I can stand little else.

I reach up and encircle the smooth, swollen, oily shaft and tug firmly at it, jerking it in the direction of my face. Our eyes lock, but his hand remains in place. As I continue, he lowers his free hand and positions his fingers at the ring's latch, giving him control over the timing of both orgasms.

On the one hand, if it's at all possible for me to be more turned on that I am, this has done it. Just the idea, let along the reality of someone having complete control over your orgasm is just … crazily, unbelievably exciting, and then on top of _that_, for you to not know, not have a single clue, as to when you will explode ? – there _is_ no thinner razor edge to keep someone on. Mentally, I've just erupted in orgasm number 19.

On the other hand, however … I'm slightly annoyed, or, as annoyed as one can be when a sopping wet Curt Wild is slowly writhing in your lap, altering your brainwaves. I want to come, dammit, and I want to come _now_. (Whose idea was the bloody cock ring, again?)

The demonic backward thrust continues for several minutes and then suddenly, mercifully … _CLICK_! … oh god … oh holy fucking christ … I'm twisting beneath him, screaming like an absolute bloody maniac, spasming crazily, hot fluid pumping, flooding his insides.

The insanest thing of all is that he's still pulling on me as I come, milking it along. What did I do to deserve this? The man is a sexual dynamo like there never has been.

* * *

><p>(Actual definition of "dynamo"):<p>

"Generator consisting of a coil that rotates between the poles of an electromagnet (the field magnet) causing a current to flow.")

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note …<strong>_

Writing is a weird thing. You sit there looking at a blank screen and at some point later (minutes, hours or days) you are looking at the story. I had no clue when I began this chapter where it was going. I knew Brian was going to try to make love to Curt. I knew it wasn't going to be smooth sailing, because how could it be. Initially as I said I was writing for myself, for my own amusement and challenge, and wasn't planning to show this crazy endless story to anyone, and that freed me up tremendously as far as topics, level of filthiness and level of schmaltzy romance, etc., however at one point well down the road I showed the entire story to my best friend, who gave me great critical feedback, and one of the things she said about this chapter was that she would have expected that there would have been multiple attempts at sex before it worked. I'm sure I felt the same way as the chapter began to develop, that realistically, someone recovering from sexual assault wouldn't of course have an easy time with penetrative sex the next time it was attempted, no matter how much time had passed, however in my own defense I will point out that Brian's attempt _does_ fail- it all breaks down, in typical Curt fashion, with the wall being punched, the two yelling at each other, and most surprising and shitty of all, even to me as I was writing it, Curt saying 'fuck you' to the one person in the world who cares _this_ much and is trying _this_ hard to help him. The messiness continues with Brian inadvertently shoving Curt to the floor, who hits his head, even. Now Curt's _really_ fucking mad, and what I try to have him do is pour that energy – the combination of rage, feelings of humiliation, and not-yet-subsided arousal - directly into _forcing this fucking thing to finally_ _be dealt with_, and on _his _terms. As he says he's _not_ some delicate piece of china.

So hopefully this works for people and isn't too jarring or too terribly unrealistic. .

As far as the definition of 'dynamo', I just found it hilariously apt – _poles_, an electromagnetic field, and finally, a current flowing


	10. There's No 'It' Here

When I'm able to breath again, I look up at him. He's wearing a wide, satisfied grin. He lets go, and I grab impatiently for his cock. The head is mushroomed and oozing, the shaft smooth and tight, veins bulging. In five quick strokes he's gone, shooting off into my face and neck.

He drops to me quickly and, still panting, laps hungrily at the white foam, licking up my neck to my mouth, where we devour each other like two starving people.

"You dirty, filthy boy," he hisses breathily, "making me come in your face."

"Yes," I respond excitedly, both hands pawing at his hair, "I wanted it. I want more."

"Eating my ass and then fucking it."

"Oh ghod. It excited you. It made you come."

"Right in your face."

He clamps down hard on my mouth, a stinging vice grip, and rocks his hips forward ungently, mashing his cock into mine.

An observer walking into the room would never guess that these two people have _just_ _had_ sex.

He stops suddenly and goes to stand, pulling me halfway up by the arm.

"Wait," I plead, still catching my breath. "Where are you going?"

"To fuck in the shower."

I pull him back, touching his face.

"Curt, I need some time … in between. I think you do too."

"I don't care."

"Well I do. I'm totally spent."

He sighs and kisses me gently, pushing the remnants of the foam from my jaw.

"How long?"

I laugh softly. "You are an eager boy, aren't you?"

His eyes, his whole face is sparkling. His voice is hyper excited, high pitched, uber-giddy. "Brian, an absolute motherfucking _miracle_ just happened! Do you understand the significance of this? Can you conceive of it? Do you have _any_ _idea_, in the whole entire goddam _world_, what just happened?" He turns his chin up and shouts into the air. "Brian Slade has given me my ass back!"

I laugh out loud- we both do, with delight. I flush and grin with pride and squeeze his hand tight.

"Oh my darling angel. I'm just so incredibly honored … and relieved, and happy that it worked out, you have no idea."

"Um, _me too_. Fucking complete and utter miracle, I'm telling you! I've just crossed one of _the_ major dividing lines of my whole entire goddam life. I'm a _new man_ !" He laughs harder. "I'm _definitely_ gonna want sex all the time now."

"As opposed to before, when you barely wanted it ever?"

We both laugh.

He drops to lay down next to me. I roll towards him. We hold hands over his belly. He babbles on, totally animated and giddy.

"I cannot fucking believe it. _I cannot fucking believe it._ It's a _literal_ miracle! Seriously! You can't _imagine_ what this means to me. You can't _imagine_ what it's like to go that long without. _And it was a fucking thousand times better than I remembered !_ TEN thousand! Fucking SOOO fucking HOT! And here I was, honestly expecting to go the rest of my life–"

"–That wouldn't have been possible."

"Sure it would have. I was prepared for it. There were no guarantees–"

"–I love you too much for that."

He pauses and looks at me. "Brian,"

"Ya?"

"I gotta ask you something."

"Okay."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but … why on earth do you love me?"

My heart twinges.

"I know I sound like an asshole, but I keep wondering – why? Everybody looks at me and they see: loser, junkie, fuckup. People don't fall in love with that. They use it, and they hit it up and fuck it and everything, but they don't fall in love. So why? I don't get it."

I roll over on top of him.

"Because there's no 'it' here, Curt. There's _you_, and I love _you_. Those people are motherfuckers, arseholes. They don't know you. They have no clue in the world what they're missing. You're incredibly beautiful and special and precious to me."

I move in to kiss him but he pulls away.

"What about Mandy?"

I wince, totally taken aback. He's never mentioned her name before.

"What _about_ her?"

"Well at one point you must have felt the same way about her."

"No, I didn't."

"You _married_ her, Brian!"

"That was only because we thought she was pregnant. I was 20 years old, she was 19, we were two stupid fucking children! And then it turned out- she _wasn't_ pregnant. To this day I wonder if she faked it."

"But are you saying you never felt anything for her?"

"No. I did, in the beginning, but believe me, nothing that even approaches what I feel for you. And then things happened …"

He squints.

"What things?"

"Curt, I mean … everything! We met Jerry, and everything began spinning out of control; I got rich, I got _famous_, and she, inevitably I suppose … changed. And _I_ changed. We became a fiction. But even before that, we were never entirely exclusive. She had lovers, as did I."

"Jesus."

I look at him.

"Does that surprise you?"

"I don't know, it's just that, right now, I can't imagine you with anyone else. It would rip me to shreds. It would feel like total betrayal."

I squeeze his hand and kiss it.

"I feel the same way." We kiss softly. "You're all I know; you're all I think about." I laugh into his mouth. "I'm desperately, madly in love, you know."

He grins.

I move to kiss his neck.

"Just do me one favor."

"What?"

"Don't mention her name again. It made me lose my hard-on."

* * *

><p>Up like a shot and my arm is almost ripped from it's socket as he pulls me behind him, sprinting out of the room and into the shower. He throws his hand on the lever and we stand beneath the warm spray, half laughing, kissing, stroking. In truth we could both use a bath, having been drenched in various quantities of oily lube, sweat, spit, and come for the past few hours.<p>

I reach for the bar of soap and we share it between us, lathering our hands, and running them over each other's torsos, and at one point, shrieking and giggling like schoolchildren – our noses. Soon however his soapy fingers are slipping ever downward, where they stop to gently gather and tug at the hairs. It's a strangely pleasant and hypnotic sensation, not unlike a massage, and I find myself shutting my eyes.

After a minute I speak softly. "You're hypnotizing me."

"I am," he whispers.

"Where on earth did you learn this?"

"Ahhhh …" He pecks me on the mouth. "From _you_, my friend."

I think a moment, and then it hits me. Just a few days ago- my first and so far, only time with him, orally.

"Mmmm, I remember."

"_Do_ you, now."

"Yes."

He whispers into my neck. His free hand drops to my cock. "Why don't you tell me about it."

Fuck.

My eyes remain shut as his left hand continues the bewitching, rhythmic tug-massage, while his right hand tunnels feather-soft round the shaft, the way you rev a motorbike handle. Together the two sensations serve to focus your attention, putting you _right next door_ to the feeling, as opposed to right on top of it.

As he continues, I become more and more transfixed, and less and less able to form thoughts, let alone speak. Which of course, he won't have any of.

"Brian", he whispers in that ungodly gravel tone. I can feel that he's standing right in my face.

"Yes?" My voice is far off.

"Anything wrong?"

I laugh-snort. I feel stoned.

"Is this good?"

I can only nod.

"What does it feel like?"

I swallow and open my eyes. He's standing inches away, watching.

"No, eyes shut. Focus."

Oh god. I gulp hard, and oblige.

"Tell me."

"It's, it's, just …" I clear my throat, "very pleasant."

"What's pleasant?"

I feel shy for some reason.

"What you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

"Sort of …. stroking me."

"Stroking your cock?"

"Yes."

"With a soapy hand."

"Yes."

"So it's slippery and smooth."

"It feels … amazing."

"Plus, it's getting you hard. And clean."

I giggle under my breath.

"Because you were just deep inside my ass, if you recall …"

My giggle continues.

"And I'm absolutely dying for you to do that again …"

I stop instantly.

"To fuck me _hard_, in the ass …"

I gulp hard.

"But I'm also," He licks my lobe, "absolutely dying to suck you off, Brian."

A small peep escapes my lips.

"Pull you into my throat."

"Gohd". I'm practically hyperventilating.

"I can't wait."

Fuck!

"So I've got a bit of a dilemma here, don't you think?"

Christ!

He turns me toward the spray, allowing the suds to run down my thighs, then places a flat palm against the middle of my chest, pressing me firmly back into the tile, where he clamps his mouth down hard over mine. Sweet Jesus I'm excited, pawing at him, biting his tongue and lips, beside myself with want. After a breathless few minutes, he pulls back and drops with a thud to his knees.

I grab his hair and bend my head back against the tile as he pulls me inward with a level of pressure I've never felt. Lord, what my poor cock has been through in the last hour. And now, oh Christ, that magical swirling, spinning, swiveling tongue, cementing my hard-on. And then … holy _mother_, he wastes no time. I've got a hand digging into his shoulder and one cradling the back of his head, and I'm shaking. I gulp-cough-pant-wheeze several times in succession. I glance down quickly. The hair he'd been tugging at is brushing the tip of his nose. He's doing it- taking me into his throat.

The room is a fog- I can't see more than 8 inches in front of me. Somewhere far off in my mind I can distinctly picture the ballooned head being fitted like a puzzle piece, over and over into the rear of the soft pallet, but can't tell if it's him that's moving, or me. I feel unsettled, dizzy, almost queasy. Fuck, it's … absolutely bloody unbearable, the tight seal his lips create, that intense suction, the terrible banging ache/throb, coupled with this mind splitting sensation of being enveloped so completely, so deeply, of being almost literally swallowed. A super smooth velvet vacuum.

It's the thing about oral: It is one thing to be up between someone's legs, but the inside of a mouth is just a whole nother universe, being the very seat of _the_ original primal instinct- sucking, and to boot, also providing it's own built-in, pointable, lap-able, flickable, wrap-round-able, unflappable, strong-when you-need-it, soft-when-you-don't, ever-wet instrument of torment, the sacred, beautiful, all knowing, all brilliant … tongue. And Curt's is a Rhodes fucking Scholar.

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

And I shoot off like the proverbial rocket. It's several lid-fluttering, gasping for breath, mind-blackening seconds before I realize he's pulled off and is bent forward, both hands flat on the floor, hacking and coughing with force.

Still swaying on my feet, with one hand on the wall behind to steady myself, I lay a gentle hand on the middle of his convulsing back, feeling terribly guilty.

After hacking a final few times, I help him to stand. His entire face is red and his eyes are watered. He turns and opens his mouth to drink from the spray.

I push the hair back from his face and take his hand.

"I'm so sorry, my sweet." Slipped out again, dammit.

Not seeming, once again, to have noticed, he shakes his head and clears his throat roughly, and pants out a response.

"S'okay … My fault … _Way_ out of practice … Missed the signals."

"Signals?"

He clears his throat again and lean back against the tile.

"There are _always _signals."

I feel a twinge of jealousy. How many other people … ? Stop, don't think about it.

I run a hand along his jaw. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

He pulls me close, his cock is between us, upright against his belly.

"Brian, believe me, you will _never_ hear me complain about gagging on come. In fact, I consider it one of life's greatest pleasures."

We laugh. We kiss.

"No it fucking well isn't."

"Yes it is- not physically. Physically it's the worst, but _mentally_, the knowledge that you just took a mouthful that you couldn't handle? I mean, come on, that is just absolutely scorching fucking hot! Seriously! I challenge you to come up with something hotter than that."

"Okay, Christ, if you put it that way …"

We kiss again. I reach for his cock and stroke it slowly, feather soft.

"But I didn't think I–"

"–No, you didn't, it wasn't the quantity, it was just that, with deep throat, it's always trickier." He raises his eyebrows at me, teasingly, like a schoolteacher. "As I'm sure you must know, young man."

I grin at him shyly.

"Actually … I don't have a lot of experience with it, and the few times I did try it, it was a disaster, but nobody will call it that to a rock star."

We laugh.

"Mandy–" I catch myself.

His face falls momentarily, before recovering.

"She's good?"

I look down. "Ya." I want to kick myself. _Stupid fucking arsehole_!

He smiles.

"I knew there had to be some other reason you married her. Some chicks, they have the instinct for it."

"Yup."

"But I gotta say, with oral, overall, in my experience, I think you need to _have_ a cock to really _know_ how to suck one, let alone … take it deep."

All this talk is beginning to hit. I grasp him firmer.

"For fuck's sake, I don't wanna talk about women, I wanna talk about you, and how absolutely bloody incredible you are in the sack, scarily so."

"Yes," he mimics, "bloody incredible."

"Fuck off. You just … really are like this … beautiful wild beast sometimes."

"Well, you know the rumor: I was raised by wolves."

"Fuck _off_, please! I'm serious. It's the same thing when you sing- you get completely lost in it, and it just … rips my head off, it's so beautiful."

I look down. "And I must say, you do have the most lovely and incredible cock. I bet you didn't know that."

"I didn't."

I look up at him.

"What on earth shall we do with it?"

He grins sly.

"I know a place it wants to go."

"Oh? Where is that?"

"Turn around and I'll show you."

* * *

><p>Facing the tile I raise my hands to the built in hand-holds just above and to either side of my head. Ahhh engineering. Meanwhile he's lubed up his cock and is using it like a paintbrush against my backside, pressing and sliding it between, slowly up and down, getting me all gooey, until my knees are near to buckling.<p>

He kisses my back and whispers.

"In the interest of full disclosure, I just want you to know I have an ulterior motive, here."

Here I am trembling with excitement and anticipation, and he's in a silly mood.

"Fuck _off_. Shut up and _fuck_ me."

His voice is playful, even as he's continuing the slow paintbrush torment.

"I _will_ fuck you, Brian, you don't have to worry about that. But I think it's important for you to know know –"

I sigh loudly.

"–I think it's _important_ you know that I'm only doing so as a sort of science experiment."

I tap my foot on the tile. "Science experiment."

"Yes. I wanna see if I can make you come for the the third time in a half hour."

I laugh wearily. "Christ, Curt. I'm 25, not 12."

"Okay, so you're saying if it works, that makes me a child molester."

I groan/exhale loudly, annoyedly.

"Okay, but I also have to say, I have an ulterior, _ulterior_ motive."

I answer, bored.

"And that would be?"

He positions himself immediately at the entrance and speaks conversationally.

"The sooner you get hard again …," he begins bouncing the tip against me, something that drives me absolutely nuts, "the sooner you might fuck me." With a grunt, he pushes _just_ inward. I gasp sharply. He continues speaking like we're sitting at a cafe, his voice only just slightly altered. "Only this time," he pushes further inward. I'm gritting my teeth. How can something this painful feel, at the same time, so incredibly good? "Only this time, in the way that I've been craving," he grunts, and pushes himself fully inward, "with you on top."

He leans against my back and slides his arms round my waist. We each pant hard into the tile. He kisses my ear.

"We can do it someplace kinky, like maybe, the shower."

I laugh, despite myself.

"Or, if I can't make you into a 12 yr old, maybe we can do it later, on the beach, and then after, in that

jacuzzi. We haven't done it there yet."

I turn my head. "So I take it we're literally going to spend the day fucking?"

He pulls back and thrusts inward several times, hard.

I'm gasping, white knuckling the handles.

He whispers gravelly into my ear. "And the problem you have with that is …?"

"Nothing," I pant, "except maybe … exhaustion."

"Ahhh, 'fuck fatigue'- like choking on come, not a thing that enters my realm of complaint."

He pumps inward twice more and kisses my neck.

"Besides, can you honestly think of a better way to spend the day?"

"Well … no. But Curt, …" I gasp, "we really … need to leave the house today–"

He's playful.

"–No! Not on Fuck Day!"

He thrusts inwards a half dozen times. I'm gasping desperately, gripping and regripping the handles. When he pauses before the next half dozen, I turn my head for a messy sideways kiss.

"Okay … I give up. Why do we have to go out?"

I pant out a response.

"We're out of groceries."

"Jesus", he's bursts out laughing, "That is _so_ unsexy, Brian! You really know how to turn a guy off!"

* * *

><p>A few dozen more strokes and several bites to my earlobe later, he comes, and collapses against my back. He remains in place a long while, catching his breath before speaking, and then it's the first thing out of his mouth.<p>

"Anything?"

I look down.

"No. You've worn it down to a nub, and it's hiding."

He doesn't respond.

"Sorry," I offer.

I turn round. There is such disappointed in his eyes, in fact, he looks crushed. I can't stand it. I raise my hand and cradle his cheek.

"My beautiful boy, I want this too; I just need some time, that's all, but it'll happen, and it'll be amazing, I promise."

He looks down. He's embarrassed.

"I know. I just … I have this … stupid fucking idea, Brian, that's sort of … taken hold of me," He sighs, "that it'll, … make it all go away – what happened."

He looks at me.

"Riding you was absolutely amazing, do you know that? Really powerful and beautiful and healing; I can't tell you what that meant to me. But for some reason … there is just something in me that needs to sort of … replicate what happened. The positioning, I mean. _Being_ fucked."

I kiss his cheek.

"I need to switch memories, once and for all. Cuz it's still with me. That's why I'm so fucking anxious, I guess. I wanna kill it, dead."

I grasp the back of his neck and turn my face into it.

"I know."

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"But, you know, anticipation is supposed to be a good thing. Not that I've engaged in it much, or like … ever."

I pull back and look at him.

"It _is_ a good thing, Curt- waiting. It will mean that, when it happens, it'll be _that_ much more special and beautiful, not to mention … delicious."

He searches my face, processing this for long moments before responding.

"Like a wedding night."

I'm totally floored. Who is this man, who, at the drop of a hat, will bang you thru a wall, or hurl you into it, will scare the living shit out of you with that hair trigger temper, who on the turn of a dime will then utter something so heartbreakingly romantic that it makes your innards hurt?

I squeeze his hand and nod.

"Like a wedding night."

We kiss softly, at length. When I begin to pull away, he whispers into my mouth.

"And I'm the virgin."

I look at him. His face is calm and serious. It suddenly hits me that any chance he ever had of _being_ a virgin was stolen from him by his brother.

I pull him towards me, and hold him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_ **for anyone reading this who has NOT seen the film ...**

Curt's older brother molested him as a child. And to make matters worse, Curt's parents blamed Curt for this, and sent him off, at aged 13, to a mental institution where he underwent shock treatment for over a year, in order to, as the film put it "fry the fairy out of him". Todd Haynes based this idea on events that actually happened to Lou Reed, whose parents had him undergo shock treatment due to him showing 'gay tendancies'.

Secondly Curt calling Brian "Demon" is a nickname based on Brian's stage name, "Maxwell Demon".


	11. I Would Have Waited

When we finally emerge from the house, it is mid afternoon, and the sun is shining bright. Painfully so, for my eyes, which have grown completely accustomed to mere candle and firelight, and so I hide under a hat and big glasses. Curt meanwhile, has thrown on yesterday's wrinkled black trousers and shirt, and seems oblivious.

As we walk the few blocks to the square, we pass positively eye popping scenery; the remnants of beautiful ancient ruins, still magnificent and grand, a couple of historic mission churches, lovely narrow windy streets which dead end at the blue waters of the ocean, all absolutely incredible … but Curt sees none of it. He's looking downward as we walk, in full concentration over … something.

"Curt, what is it?"

He whips his head round, as if he's forgotten I'm here.

"What? Oh. Nothing. I'm just … thinking."

"You're missing some ungodly scenery." I point.

He stops and looks off absently, squinting. "Ya, nice", and immediately continues walking.

I catch up and take his hand.

"What is it? Is anything wrong?" He continues, walking briskly.

"Umm … I'm still … working it out."

I step in front of him. "Working what out?"

"Brian it's just," He sighs. "It's just beginning to all make sense to me." He pauses.

"What is?"

"What we talked about. The idea of waiting."

"Okay."

"I think it's a great idea. I think we oughta wait."

I smile. "I do too."

"But, like, a _while_, I mean, with like, nothing in between."

I'm not grasping it.

"I mean …" he becomes animated and resumes walking. "Brian, maybe we've been gorging ourselves too much. I mean I can't believe I'm saying this but it's all beginning to come together in my head."

"Gorging ourselves?"

He stops and looks at me.

"The sex. We've fucked what, 18 times in the last few days? Something like that?"

"Not exactly, but, so what?"

"Well I'm beginning to think maybe we should hold off. Stay away from it for a while. So it'll be special, like you said."

Me and my big fucking mouth. I clear my throat. "Okay, but, how long?"

"Til like maybe the last night."

I blurt. "The last night? Curt, that's 12 days away!"

He's blank faced. "I know. I can count."

My voice climbs an octave. "But not two hours ago you wanted to spend the _entire day fucking _!"

He looks around. "You wanna keep your voice down ?"

I shout-whisper. "I had to practically drag you out the bloody door, and even then you only agreed due to the threat of starvation, since we're completely out of food!"

He turns to resume walking and shouts-whispers back at me.

"I know all that! Why are you being such as asshole about this, Brian? It was your fucking idea, and I've fallen in love with it, that's all. It's perfect. A wedding night- you've had that; I never have."

I catch up with him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Curt, wait, will you slow down, please?" He stops. I sigh.

"I'm sorry. You're right, it was my idea, the waiting, and I meant it; it's a really lovely thought, and I still want to, I really do." I take his hand again and smile at him. "I just don't know that we need to wait all _that_ long, do we? For it to be meaningful? I mean, also, is it really feasible? We're sleeping in the same bed."

He drops my hand and resumes walking again. "So I'll sleep on the couch."

I hurry up to him. "Curt, wait." He doesn't. "Will you _quit_ walking away from me for a single bloody second?"

He stops, looking annoyed.

"It's a lovely, sweet idea, please hear me when I say that, okay? This is _me_ here, remember? The person who loves you, the person who knows the whole history, right? Do you honestly think I'd want anything other than for it to be completely special and beautiful for you?"

His face opens. I've got him. "No."

"All I'm asking if that maybe we discuss it a bit, before you go and decide entirely on your own."

His face closes. I've lost him again.

"I don't know what there is to discuss. You brought it up, and I'm just agreeing with your idea. It's simple! We should abstain!"

That stupid bloody term! I hate it! It sets me off.

"Jesus! '_Abstain_'- I _cannot_ believe you're using that word! Here I am on vacation in the Mediterranean with Curt Wild, '_abstaining_'! You sound like some primary school nun !"

We each begin shouting.

"Fine, then in 12 days, you'll be fucking a nun! Will that turn you on? Will it make you happy !"

"I'm hardly bloody waiting 12 days! There's no need first of all, and secondly, do you honestly think you'd last til then? YOU? You'd be lucky to last 12 minutes!"

"Don't fucking flatter yourself, Demon! And sure, go ahead and _call_ me a fucking whore if it makes you feel better, but I have to say, I sure don't remember you complaining about my sex drive before. And by the way, try not to be so revealing in your choice of words: 'You'd', like this was obviously some remote, silly fucking idea to you. Why did you even bring this _up_ to me if you weren't sincere about it? Because you felt bad for me! Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"You're _allowing_ yourself to be hurt by being overly melodramatic and deliberately blowing this out of proportion! You know _exactly_ what I meant!"

We've arrived at the edge of the outdoor market in the town's square on a positively gorgeous Saturday afternoon. The place is packed; vendors shout their wares, couples roam, old women mill about, squeezing vegetables and arguing as they barter. The air is filled with the beautiful, lyrical Spanish language.

Meanwhile, in the middle of this blissful scene, we're having a bloody nuclear meltdown. And over what? SEX !

He walks forward and shouts back to me over his shoulder.

"I'm getting us some fucking food! You do whatever the fuck you want! I could give a shit!"

I walk past him quickly, shouting. "_I'll_ get the fucking vegetables and bread! You wouldn't know a vegetable if it slugged you in the face! _You_ get the meat! Me- vegetables, you- meat, got it ?"

"Ya, and while you're at it, why don't you shove one of those oversized cucumbers up your ass? Or go fuck a couple of the vendor's brains out- since I know you can't possibly wait for sex. Oh but no, I've got it backwards- _I'm_ the whore, here, right?"

"No! Of course not! You've never once had a dick forced up your ass, have you?"

An inner voice screams at me to IMMEDIATELY SHUT THE HELL UP, but I ignore it like an idiot, and rage on.

"NO! You're just suddenly the fucking little timid innocent _virgin_! Aren't you?"

In the next split second, the wind is knocked completely out of me, and I'm laying face up on the ground with a split lip. He's standing several feet back, red faced, yelling swears, kicking and struggling between the two men who have grabbed his arms. A number of people gawk, surveying the drama between the two crazy white men; it's exactly like a scene from a bad Western, complete with an old woman kneeling by me, dabbing at my lip with a hankie.

While I've never been in a fight before in my life, (and am now bloody well sure Curt's been in dozens), I immediately recognize the level to which I had this one coming, and how the damage I've now caused by opening my stupid mouth could very well be irreparable.

My head is pounding, and not from the blow. How … HOW? … _HOW_? could I have managed to belittle him in such a fantastically cruel and thoughtless way, with seeming references, however idiotically inadvertent on my part, not only to the rape, but then, perhaps worse, to his dreams of recovering from it? Am I mentally fucking ILL?

As he is held back by the two men, it suddenly hits me: Because of his time in the hospital as a child, he can't bear to be restrained. Great, just add this into the mix, now.

I scream twice, "Déjelo ir!" ("Let him go!"). I'm praying that he runs over and kicks the living shit out of me, but when they release him, he shoves the two men roughly aside, but then doesn't seem to know what to do. He seems to want to bolt, but instead he dives next to me.

His eyes are watered and pained. His voice is sad, and freaked.

"Are you okay?"

We immediately begin talking over each other.

"I'm so sorry–"

"–Brian, why on earth did you say those things?–"

–"It came out wrong, I didn't mean for it to sound–"

"–I'm sorry I hit you, but I can't really forgive you, you know."

I look at him.

"I understand."

"How could you be that cruel? I don't get it. Why?"

I sit up. The people around us have lost interest and wandered off.

"Curt, I swear to you, I swear on my mother's fucking grave, I in no way meant it how it sounded. I'm absolutely horrified. I was angry. I just blurted the first idiotic thing I could, without even realizing how it would sound. I'm so incredibly sorry, you have no idea."

He doesn't respond.

My eyes well up. "Please. You have to believe me, Curt."

His face is cold.

"No, I don't."

He stares blankly. His voice is calm.

"You know, I always thought it was me who couldn't let it go, who couldn't get past it- being raped, but I'm just realizing, it's actually _you_ who can't. It seems to serve some twisted fucked up purpose for you, Brian. It took me a while to realize, but now I see it."

I'm crying. I grab for his hand but he won't take it.

"It's not true! This is all a horrible mistake! Curt, I love you. More than anyone in the world. I would never hurt you!"

He stands and looks down at me.

"There was someone else who used to say that exact same thing to me, that he loved, that he would never hurt me. My brother."

I stand quickly.

"I am _not_ your brother!"

He leans towards me. "Maybe not, but then, who are you? I don't think I even know. But no matter, I don't really care anymore."

He points down the road and talks without emotion.

"I'm gonna go back to the house now Brian, and borrow some money from you so I can change my flight. I'm gonna try and leave right away, but if I can't, I'll fly out first thing in the morning. I'll wire the money back to you at some point, but after I'm gone, I don't ever wanna see you again, do you understand?"

He takes my hand to shake it.

"Thanks for the free trip to Spain," and walks off quickly.

I'm sobbing like an idiot in the middle of the square, watching him disappear, but somehow manage to stop myself from calling out his name. I wander over to the perimeter and plant myself down on a bench next to an old man with a pipe, where for the next 10 minutes, I cover my face in my hands and bawl.

Eventually I stand. I don't want to go back to the house but I have no choice. I slowly make my way to the sidewalk, still sobbing. On the way I run it all over in my head. This was literally just a stupid bloody misunderstanding! Why can he not see that? Why can he not believe me? To say I somehow got something out of the knowledge that he was raped? Me, who has tried so hard to help him with it? To have dared to compare me to his brother! It was just an argument! He can't leave! He can't end the whole bloody thing over something as stupid as this!

Eventually I'm at the door, but I don't want to open it, terrified he's gone.

Relax, arsehole, he couldn't have left quite yet. He's inside. He was calm and unemotional, you be the same. Nonchalant even. Think! Explain it! And make it good. This _will_ be your last chance.

I wipe down my face, take a deep breath, and open the door.

I can hear him rifling around upstairs.

Suddenly it's all familiar: Curt, upstairs, packing, threatening to leave; me, panicked, sobbing, begging him not to.

Annoyed, I ascend the stairs.

He's got his battered suitcase on the bed, and is throwing in and/or rearranging his belongings.

Calm, unemotional, praying he doesn't notice that I'm shaking …

"Well, this is becoming a familiar sight."

He doesn't respond.

"But you're actually doing it this time."

No response

"You got your flight?"

Nothing.

"When are you leaving?"

"An hour", he blurts.

"Where are you flying to?"

He stops and looks at me

"Don't worry. I have no intention of following you. I know you've made up your mind."

He turns to transfer things from the bureau to his suitcase.

"I know we're through."

He's shoving a crumpled up pair of underwear into the end pocket

"You've made that call."

He shakes out a pair of pants loudly.

"Shut the fuck up."

I ignore him.

"It's such a bloody stupid waste."

He hisses.

"A waste of _what_, Brian? A waste of my _time_ for the last week? Yes, totally."

"A waste of your heart."

He snaps. "Don't fucking even talk to me, with your complete lies and bullshit!"

I remain calm. "Why, are you gonna hit me again?"

"You deserved it."

"Yes, if I had meant it the way it sounded to the casual observer, then I did. But, you're hardly the casual observer."

"I'm _not_ talking about this! Get the fuck outta here!"

"It's my house."

He sighs.

"Ya, and I'll be leaving it very soon. I can hardly fucking wait."

"And it's not bullshit, by the way, unless you consider that you're bullshitting yourself."

"I am NOT talking about this! What part of that do you not understand?"

"Fine, then we'll have a one-sided conversation. See how you like it."

"I won't be listening."

"That's a big change."

He snaps. "Brian, you wanna talk about my heart? I _opened_ it up to you- wide! I emptied the contents, and trusted you with it. What the fuck was I thinking, right?"

"Exactly what _I_ was thinking! Finally, FINALLY, here's a person I can love, I can completely open up to, for real, no games, no _bullshit_!, who loves me back- tenfold! Do you have any idea how _rare_ that is?"

He turns to me.

"Listen to me, Brian: What you said to me bordered on sick and sadistic. It felt like molestation, like there was a part deep inside you that enjoyed toying with me or something. That sure as fuck isn't love. And if it is, I don't want any part of it. I've had enough twisted, unhealthy shit for one lifetime."

"Wait. Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt here? _Why_ would you imagine for a single _second_ that I would toy with you, or gain some sort of morbid benefit from what happened to you? Am I not the one who's in fact been trying to help you through it, help you heal? Why turn on a dime, on me, Curt?"

He's looking at me, fidgeting absently with a shirt.

"I'm not perfect. I blurted something in anger, not even realizing how deeply it would hurt you. But no matter how many times I say it, you won't believe me when I tell you it meant _nothing_. I was fuming mad- so were you. We were insulting each other- _general_ insults. I made stupid cracks. When I called you a virgin, I was being an arsehole, in that it was sarcasm about your general sexual history, that was _all_. It was _not_ in any way a reference to what we'd discussed before we left the house, I didn't even think of that, but as soon as it came out of my mouth, it was too late. I realized immediately how it would sound. I'm horrified, absolutely crushed that I hurt you, even if it was inadvertent, even if I know with all my soul that it wasn't meant that way."

His face is unmoved. He looks down and grabs a pair of shoes to shove them into the ends. I can see that they have sand on the bottoms, from the beach.

"I don't care."

I'm totally deflated. It was my best argument.

Try not to let it sting, stay with your gut feeling. Speak calmly.

"Okay. I'm absolutely wasting my breath."

"You are," he whispers absently, as he shoves in a pair of rumpled, mismatched socks.

"Well since you're not listening, let me just say that I took particular offense at you comparing me to your brother, who was a monster. Secondly, the thing that immediately preceded this whole disaster today- the 12 day idea. My only crime there was that I didn't want to wait that long to make love to you. 12 days seemed like an eternity, does that not tell you something? We have so little time as it is, and I enjoy hoarding you and having you to myself, but just so you know, just for the record … I would have waited."

He looks at me with empty eyes. There can be no question- he's leaving.

I'm exhausted. I want to roll myself into a ball in the corner of the room, facing the wall. I turn away quickly and walk out of the room as the tears begin spilling, as my gut clenches and a wave of nausea hits me. This has been so ugly and painful. If nothing else, at least he will leave with the knowledge of that last sentiment, at least if we must split, it will be on that note.

* * *

><p>I begin descending the stairs, having not a clue where I'm headed. My knees are weak. My hand is shaky on the railing. I'm crying quietly, from frustration, from the incredible sense of loss and sadness I feel, from the turmoil in my gut. And then suddenly I'm turning around, angry.<p>

I bolt through the door. He's shutting the suitcase. He looks up. I stammer through the sobs.

"What you're doing is wrong. Worse than that, it's stupid. It's needless. You're robbing yourself and you're robbing _me_, simply because you're afraid. I love you, Curt, but right now I can't imagine why that is. You accused me of cruelty. What you're doing right now is worse. I won't be able to forgive you."

I run my palms impatiently across my eyes – I can't see through the blasted tears. My voice shakes.

"And now I'll say the worst thing in my head, because it's true and you need to hear it, even if it will make you hate me more: I'm sickened that you continue to let the awful things that happened to you poison you, and infect your whole life. Especially when there is someone waiting for you who loves you," I sob angrily, "_so_ much, with such a _fierceness_, that it frightens him to death. Who wants nothing more in this world than to be with you and take care of you and fucking heal you if he can, if only you would let him. If only you would come to your stupid bloody senses."

My voice breaks. I choke out the words.

"So if you leave, _fuck you_. Do _not_ come back."

He hesitates a moment, then lifts the suitcase, walks by me without emotion, without a word, looking past my shoulder, and descends the stairs, pulling the door behind him. Through the screen I hear the cab door open, and shut. It pulls away.

I collapse in a ball, panting, onto the bed.


	12. Slow

The day passes. I don't sleep. I don't leave the room. I'm numb. I stare, out the window, out onto the horizon, for hours, unblinking. Inadvertently, I watch the sun set, staring directly into it, til my eyes hurt. The colors are brilliant. They fill the room. They mean nothing to me.

The room blackens. Sleep comes.

* * *

><p>I dream of course, of him. Of clasped hands. The smell of his skin. My face in his neck. Cruelly, I awaken, sweat-soaked, and hard.<p>

I grab angrily at the bag of ice in the bowl next to me, that I'd set out for my jaw, and run it down my body, gasping as it makes contact.

* * *

><p>In the morning I remain still, drifting in and out, off and on, for hours. My mind is empty. I feel nothing.<p>

At some point in the afternoon I rise, not out of any desire, but of simple need to piss. As I enter the bathroom, the breath catches in my throat- he's there in the shower, facing away, soaping his chest. I look again, and, nothing. In the corner next to me is the magazine rack that was turned over the night he tried to cut his throat. It is upright and orderly, now. Adjacent to that, on the counter, sits his razor, sans blade. I jerk my head away, and there I am in the mirror. I look withered and old. I begin focusing intently, for long moments, on the tiny veins in my eyes, desperate not to see what is there, behind me- his reflection, over my shoulder.

I piss, and return to the room, shaking. I plant myself in the window to stare off at nothing. I will remain here. I desperately need a cocoon.

Hours pass, and I begin to feel it; the numbness, without warning, receding. I claw at it, desperate for it to stay, for it to protect me. There is a brief moment when I think I've won, when it teeters on the edge and I'm pushing it back, but it turns suddenly, and falls away. In an instant, the airways constrict and my chest tightens, only to compress further, and hold. My heart races. I'm suffocating, spiraling downward from total devastation and grief. I pitch forward, clutching the window sill, blinded by the unrelenting pain which batters and washes over me in great terrible waves.

For the first time, I understand it, what he talked of, I can taste it in my mouth – the craving, the desperate all encompassing need that will not leave you, for numbness, for nothingness. For the first time in my entire life, I fully understand it, it's clear and real, the allure, the power, of suicide.

"NO!" I growl. No _fucking_ _way_. I will not be found dead in this house, and have him not hear of it. I will not be found dead, and have him hear of it, and not care.

I hold myself still, rasping the breath inward, blinking hard to squeeze out the tears. In the corner of my eye, he is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching. I clench my fists and curl myself into a ball, next to him. He turns and lays me out, and holds me.

"Bastard," I sob to him.

* * *

><p>He is diving into the ocean, mouth and eyes wide open. He swallows pockets of air and takes great gulps of water into his lungs, and it doesn't effect him. I'm with him. I look down, cradle his head, and run my fingers through the dampness of his hair. Our eyes lock, and hold. He pulls me lovingly, deeply inward, and stays with me as I come.<p>

I jolt awake, gasping, spasming.

* * *

><p>It is nightfall. The room is stale. I desperately need air. I rise slowly, pull the robe from the closet, open the bedroom door and for the first time in 36 hours, descend the stairs. My stomach churns from hunger, from now, 2 days without food. I shuffle aimlessly out the door, onto the sand. As I approach, I spot it, on the lounge chair; his robe. I sit back and pull it over me. I don't want to, I'm sick to death of it, my sides ache from the sobbing, but it can't be helped- I bury my face in it, and bawl.<p>

As my torso shakes, he, the apparition, is there, standing two feet off. He looks down at me with sadness, with concern, with love.

I wipe my face. It's a mirage, the same fantasy that's been following me around, but it's such a tremendously comforting one I don't care at the moment that it's fake. I don't care if it's a sure sign I'm losing it.

I turn to him. He is incredibly beautiful. His eyes are extraordinarily bright and clear, and the moonlight catches the stubble on his jaw, but most arresting is that lovely tousled mane of unwashed hair getting blown about in the breeze. I blink. I blink again.

Suddenly, a jolt shoots through me and I'm frightened. I'm losing my mind, clearly, from the strain of it all, from sleep deprivation, from hunger, but, I can't stop myself …

My voice is small, squeezed of life. I'm trembling. I feel incredibly fragile.

"Is it you?"

The apparition's hand extends. I don't take it.

"No," I whisper,

He holds my gaze.

"Is it you?"

His first two fingers wiggle at me.

"Yes."

Liar.

Yet … I'm suddenly scared to death. I _am_ losing it. I feel lightheaded, strung out, completely spent. My voice shakes violently.

"No, Curt, I _have_ to know … is it _you_."

The figure drops to his knees next to me, eyes gentle and warm. He takes my hand between his and studies my face. He speaks softly and comes into focus.

"It's me, Brian."

I freeze. The breath kicks forward, sputtering from my lungs. It's too much. He leans and engulfs me in his arms, holding me, caressing me as the sobs rack my body, whispering over and over again his sorrow and pain and love.

Oh god. Oh god. It's true, it is.

I'm completely overwhelmed. My head is spinning, twirling- with shock, with relief, with fear and bewilderment.

We hold each other, even as my breathing returns, even as the sobs finally, eventually subside.

He leans back, and brushes the hair from my eyes. We study each other's faces. His thumb runs gently over the corner of my still swollen lip.

"Have you not fucking put ice on this yet?"

The words spit forth.

"It-it _is_ you?"

He smiles.

"Yes." He squeezes my hand. "I was petrified to come back, sure you'd kick me out."

I'm stunned. I still don't believe it.

"But … ?"

He sighs and takes my hand. The corner of his mouth turns up.

"I guess you could say I finally came to my stupid bloody senses."

"But … didn't you leave the country … 2 days ago?"

"Almost."

"Then, what?"

"Flight got delayed, then it got canceled. Gave me time to think. I've been sleeping in airport chairs since I left, thinking like a motherfucker."

"But …"

"Right away I just … missed you. I felt so fucking empty, it was physically painful. I tried to ignore it but it kept gnawing at me, this giant gaping hole in my gut. But mostly it was what you said that kept ringing in my fucking ears."

I pull him towards me. It's sinking in. _The mirage is real._ _I'm holding him right this second._ I whisper shakily.

"Which was ?"

"Everything you said. It hit like a fucking sledgehammer, Brian. How you were sickened by me, how I had allowed it all to poison me. _That_ I absolutely could not get past. Jesus, it hurt."

I pull back and raise my hand to his cheek

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck, don't be ridiculous. You were right, that's all. Doesn't mean it wasn't painful to hear, but like you said, I _needed_ to hear it."

"Did you hate me, though?"

He sighs.

"Probably no more than you've hated me since I left. I felt a lot of bad things that day. It's just, unfortunately it's just so easy to set me off, Brian. I'm so fucking fucked up and _unstable_, and I _so_ don't wanna be that way, I swear to god, but the second I detect, or think I detect someone betraying me or whatever, I go off. I can see myself doing it, like I'm outside myself, but I can't fucking stop it."

He runs his thumb over my lip again.

"I'm so incredibly sorry; I can't tell you. When I walked up just now, it just absolutely killed me to see you like that."

"Oh that was nothing. You should have been here earlier."

"I can't stand that I hurt you that much."

I respond wearily.

"You didn't hurt me, you absolutely decimated me."

My stomach is unsettled.

"I'd been hyperventilating, practically having a seizure, at one point I thought I was in the midst of a heart attack. I'm not kidding. I was even hallucinating. I kept seeing you. "

"Seeing me?"

"All over the house. You were in the bed, in the bathroom. When I saw you just now, I was sure it was your bloody ghost again."

He's partly horrified, partly fascinated.

"Wow, that is heavy. What was I doing?"

I reflect on it.

"Protecting me. It was at the absolute rock bottom moments, you were there."

I look at him.

"But Curt, it was all rock bottom. In fact you almost didn't have a person to come back to."

"What do you mean? You might've left, too?"

"I, um, no. Forget it; never mind."

"No, tell me, I wanna know."

"I don't wanna tell you."

"Come on, Brian."

I sigh.

"It was just … in passing. I'm not saying this to be dramatic or make it all worse or guilt you out, okay? It's just that I had a momentary, very brief thought of … suicide. But I immediately knew I wasn't going to do it, so I don't want you to be upset."

He's yelling.

"Upset, of course I'm fucking upset! What the fuck– "

I hold up my hand.

"–Curt, I am too far gone and emotionally wasted right now to talk about this. Please. I beg you."

He sighs.

"Okay. But we'll talk about it another time. Tomorrow."

"Why? I promise you, there's no point. It was just a–, _anyway_, I'm ready to collapse from the shock of all of this. You were a ghost, and then you came to life. I've been, we've _both_ been through enough. Please."

"Alright. But just so you know, I had the same thought at one point yesterday. Also brief. Not that it's all that rare with me."

He smiles crookedly.

"We make a fine pair."

I can't smile.

"Curt, I can't relax. What if what happened happens again? Through some stupid bloody misunderstanding? I absolutely won't be able to handle it another time."

"It won't."

"But how on earth do you know? We'll have an argument at some point. We could have an argument tomorrow. What if it escalates? Think about it, if your flight hadn't been canceled, you wouldn't be here right now."

He seems uncomfortable.

"Well, I like to think I would have arrived at the same conclusions had I been anywhere."

"And what are those conclusions?"

He examines my face.

"Mostly that I love you, that I know that's real and I can relax inside of that."

"It's not enough, though."

"No, I know. What I also realized is that I've learned in my life not to trust people, to go with my instincts instead, and how much that unravels your soul after a while. Plus, I've been such a mess for so long that I forget my instincts aren't like other people's. They themselves can't be trusted a lot of the time."

I smile. "I tend to think of you as a completely instinctual being. Like 100% of the time."

"Ya, more like baser instincts, you mean."

"No. It's lovely. It's one of the things I'm most envious of. How you will react instantly, without fear. Or even, how the fear drives you, and you absolutely run with it."

He looks at me. He speaks with sadness.

"I'm so incredibly fucking sorry about all this."

I kiss his hand.

"What will we do, Curt?"

"I don't know. There's no manual for this shit, but I think there was a lot of wisdom in what you said. It's really effected me, the idea that I have to stop allowing the bad shit in my past to control me, that I might even have the _ability_ to do that! Sounds simple, right? But you can't imagine how that blew my mind, hearing it. It's like that phrase, 'the truth will set you free.'"

I squeeze his hand.

"I'm gonna try my ass off, I promise you, Brian. I just need you to be patient with me."

"And in order to do that, I'm going to need you to trust me. I'm going to need you to not assume if something sounds odd or if we get into a fight and I say something out of anger, that it means I don't love you or I've been lying to you all along, or whatever. We have to at least start with that, and build from there, I think."

"Right. I agree."

We smile warmly at each other.

"I still cannot believe you came back. I certainly believed you wouldn't."

"I know, especially where you told me in no uncertain terms to fuck off."

I wince.

"Let's not talk about it. Let's move forward."

My stomach growls audibly.

He looks down, then up, and laughs.

"Wow, oh fuck, that's right! Have you not eaten?"

"Curt, we didn't get any food, remember? And I've certainly been in no shape to go out the last 2 days."

He takes my hand and we stand and turn for the house.

"Good!" He points with his head towards the deck, grinning. "Because I haven't eaten either, and with the money from the flight, I bought us a humongous bag of groceries!"

* * *

><p>We eat a small meal of Spanish roast chicken and wine, with the most amazing dinner rolls.<p>

I'm chewing.

"These are wickedly delicious."

"I know, aren't they? They were from the baker cat, in the square. Right by where we had our meltdown."

"You went back to the market?"

"Ya, I had no idea where else to go."

"It would have been funny if the guy recognized you."

"Ya, or like, if he'd been one of the guys holding me back."

We laugh.

"Es el hombre blanco loco otra vez!" I translate for him: "It's the crazy white man again!"

We laugh harder, talking in exaggerated accents.

"The one who threatened his friend with a big cucumber!"

"Right up his ass!"

We're holding our guts, barely able to speak.

"Quick! Call the policia!"

* * *

><p>It's late. We finish dinner and hold hands quietly across the table, studying each other's faces.<p>

"I don't think you have any idea how much I love and worship you."

He winces.

"Worship? Come on, Brian, I'm the last fucking person who should be worshiped. Surely you know that, now."

"Shut up. It's for me to decide whom I will worship. I think you're quite magical."

He grins stupidly. "'Magically delicious'."

I don't get it.

He sings stupidly. "Frosted Lucky Charms, they're magically delicious!" and then bursts out laughing. "It's a tv commercial in America for this kids' breakfast cereal with a fucking leprechaun in it doing an Irish jig; total garbage, like a million percent sugar and food coloring. You've never seen it?"

I lean close for a quick kiss.

"No. See, I even love that my declaration of undying worship makes you think of an advert for a leprechaun."

"No, an ad _with_ a leprechaun in it. You gotta get this straight, man."

"They won't take to me very well in America if I don't."

"That's right."

We kiss softly. He brightens.

"Let's go for a swim."

"You must be joking. Curt, it's 10:30 at night, the water will be cold, and I'm already wasted."

"Oh, come on! It'll feel amazing, I swear. It'll wake you right up."

"I don't wanna wake up." I whine, and begin pulling him from the table by the hand. "We've had such a terrible row, this has been about the worst 2 days of my entire life." I lean into his neck and whisper. "I badly need fucking."

He hesitates. He looks ambivalent.

"Oh, Curt, you weren't still …"

He speaks shyly.

"I guess I was, ya; a part of me, anyway."

I kiss him softly. "What part?"

He points to his temple. "My head. It still craves that honeymoon."

"Wedding night, you mean."

He grins. "There's a difference?"

We kiss.

He pulls back suddenly, looks down and counts off with his fingers, mouthing to himself. "Well we can credit 2 days towards the 12, can't we?"

"Of course," I smile, "It's only right and proper."

"Then we'll start over tomorrow."

I giggle.

"Tomorrow, okay. So we have until midnite tonite, then, is that the case, Master Wild?"

He grins. "Ooooh, I like that you called me that."

I whisper into his mouth. "I knew you would." Our lips brush. "Now let's get to bed."

* * *

><p>We walk from the kitchen, hand in hand.<p>

"See, this is one of my favorite moments in the whole world. Deciding where, and then … how."

"It never occurred to me that there was ever any decision making involved. It always feels so bloody spontaneous with you."

"Well I think we probably subconsciously try to sway each other, don't we?" He turns his head to smell under his arm. "But right now, phew, consciously, I have to say I haven't had a shower in 2 days and I fucking _stink_. Let me just run for a dip in the ocean or …" he grins, "we could get in the shower."

I pull on his hand, leading him towards the stairs.

"You know I like you unwashed. Plus, we've already had our shower. Bed, I say."

As I speak we pass the glass French doors, the ones that lead to the patio … where the jacuzzi is. Curt stops in his tracks and grins wickedly at me.

* * *

><p>We stand on the deck in the warm breeze, next to the bubbling pool. The man who I was hurt and broken by, whom I thought never to see again nor wanted to, looks so achingly beautiful in the moonlight I can barely contain myself. He reaches for my robe and slides it from my shoulders. It falls in a pile at my feet. He watches my eyes, and slips his thumbs into the stretchy waistband of my night trousers, sliding them over my hips and past my knees.<p>

I'm embarrassed for some reason by my quick erection. He reaches for it, but I block his hand, and finger the buttons on his shirt which hangs loose at his waist. I start slowly, from the bottom, peeling the sleeves backwards off his chest when I reach the top. I am unable to resist taking a nipple momentarily into my mouth, before reaching for his belt.

We stare at each other, expressionless, as I pull on it, snapping it slowly thru the loops, letting it drop to the floor. Now the top button. I'm so impatient and excited I'm shaking as I yank it open, jerk down the zipper and plunge my hand inward, knowing he will be, as usual, naked underneath.

I grasp him tightly. He is half hard. My mouth waters.

I descend to my knees, pulling the material softly down with me, and envelop the tip in my mouth. He shudders and holds my head as I move slowly down the shaft, which immediately swells in response.

After a minute he's shiny, wet, and very stiff. He pulls me upward and we turn towards the pool.

He enters ahead of me, descending the shallow stairs. I grab at the large bottle on the table, and empty most of it into the water.

"What is that?" he reaches for my hand.

I take it and enter the warm pool. "Something magical. Water soluble lube." I smile. "It will make us both really slippery."

He pulls me close.

"Is it edible, too, like that other stuff?"

Our lips brush.

"Why would you want to know that?"

* * *

><p>Our mouthes fold hungrily, furiously over each other, and right away I'm wincing and pulling back. Stupid fucking swollen lip is going to spoil everything.<p>

His hand flies to his mouth. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot."

I'm touching it gingerly, very annoyed. " It's alright. It's just a bit sore."

"Brian, I cannot believe I hit you. I feel horrible."

"I don't want you to feel horrible, I want you to be turned on and pummel me through the bloody wall. I badly need make-up sex."

He grins. "Makeup sex? Which one wears the makeup?"

"Shut up, arsehole. I'm serious. We've two naked men, with hard-ons, in a jacuzzi." I giggle despite myself. "I command that we fuck!"

"Holy shit, is _that_ what we're _in_ here for?"

I reach for his cock. He looks down.

"What are you doing under there, in the water, with your hand? I can't see."

I whisper to him. "You don't need to see."

He leans in and grazes my lips. "I can't stand not kissing you. I'll be careful. This is good, actually. It will slow us down."

We kiss softly. After a minute he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine and watch the motion below. The tip is just visible, while my hand is completely submerged, making small waves and bubbles. His eyes lower towards half mast, and close. His voice is distant.

"Christ it feels good."

He tilts to kiss, feather soft. I lean into it, kissing him firmer; our tongues explore.

The hand on the back of my hip yanks me close while the one on my waist slides diagonally to grasp me. We begin echoing each other's rapid, slippery motion. In between kisses we stop to take in the sight of the twin upright tips, swollen and bobbing at the surface. It's an unspoken, incredibly delicious contest – which one will shoot off first? It occurs to me that hand jobs have no bloody business being this exciting.

I pant into his mouth. "I thought you said it would slow us down."

He answers breathily. "I should punch you every week."

Giggles sputter out of us, despite ourselves.

"So this is make-up sex?"

I look at him. Christ, what are we doing? I have him all to myself in a warm bubbling pool, in which we are essentially weightless, and I'm jerking him off? I lift my hand and push him up and backwards onto the steps. He lands with a soft thud, with a look of astonishment, in a seated position, arse on one step, both hands behind him on the one above.

"Yes."

I climb between his knees and grasp him by the back of the neck, clamping my mouth down over his, biting and sucking through the pain. He grabs at me and answers back. Our tongues twirl and heads twist impatiently. I pull away and drop to the lower step. His cock is a little less than half way submerged. I plunge my face in with a splash, surrounding him, dipping my nose over and over into the water as I do so. Breathing is tricky and the chlorine stings my lip, but I'm relentless. He leans his torso back, tilts his chin up, and rests his hands on the step behind, in the most beautiful gesture of surrender imaginable.

When his body has tensed and his gasps have slowed, when I know he's seconds from it, before I'm aware of what has happened, I've been lifted and tossed backward, into the deeper end of the jacuzzi, where I land with a great splash.

By the time I recover, he's moved himself behind, standing us both up in the chest- deep water, pulling me close, running his hands up my body. My urge to yell at him for scaring the shit out of me is instantly gone.

He presses the hardness into my back. He bites my ear and whispers groggily. One word.

"_Slow_."

We kiss sideways, with passion, as he moves himself rhythmically, at a snail's pace, vertically between my cheeks, and into the curve of my lower back, pulling softly on my cock the whole time. After several minutes I'm completely bloody mental. I squirm and fidget in his arms, panting like a fool. How? How on earth could simulated humping be almost as hot as the real thing?

"Curt, please," I whimper.

He kisses the side of my neck.

"Please what?"

Oh, I'm going to hit him.

I sound frantic.

"I can't bear it another minute. I need you inside me."

After a beat I feel his hands clutch my waist and I'm picked up again, and hurtled softly forward thru the water. I land facing the stairs, hands resting on the upper, bent knees on the lower, ass high in the air behind, in other words, textbook perfect. It's the easiest, most graceful repositioning I've ever been subject to.

He approaches and runs a finger gently between, sending a shudder directly through me. My hips are then grasped, and he pulls backward, bumping me down to the next step, so that my cock is submerged, as is my arse.

He moves close, pulls my hips upward, and kisses my lower back, pressing into it firmly with his palm. The effect is that my back arches and my behind is now only half way submerged.

I'm not realizing the significance of this. If anything, it benefits us for my back end to be immersed in the oily pool and then … oh god, on fuck, oh holy mother of christ, … _it's his tongue, his evil tongue._

Oh fuck … Oh _FUCK_, oh … sweet …_jesus _! I am in dire need of something to grip. I lean myself forward instinctively, and he jerks me back and up again. It's strong and soft and wet and oh so … concentrated … spectacularly intense … pointed and flicking, and then flat and wide, turning slowly sideways and back, criss crossing, moving in a circle, pushing hard inward and around, and back again, and again, and again, each and every pass sending an electric jolt through both my nervous system and my cock. The night air is filled with my urgent, gasp-shouted cries, swears, and desperate pleadings.

Somewhere far off in the back of my mind I'm laughing. 1) That someone may actually call the 'policia' as it sounds like I'm being murdered, and 2) this is Curt's idea of 'slow'. But, then, the latter makes perfect sense- it's managed to delay us both peaking.

As he continues however, my orgasm approaches, and I begin involuntary hip-thrusts. He stays right with me, immediately picking up the subtle rhythm, and it's no longer bearable. As his hand snakes round front, in 5 quick jerks I'm gone, shooting off into the water.

I'm gasping, absolutely spent. I badly need a mattress to tumble down onto, but there isn't one. I don't feel I can handle more, but there's no time to ponder it.

He flips me over. I balance myself on outstretched arms directly beneath, and turn my hips out to gather him to me. I encircle him, and hook my ankles behind. He positions himself at the eye and with one hand flat on the step, and the other wrapped round my back, plunges himself inward. We float and bounce freely, pushing him deeper each time.

Though it is more gradual, more hard won due to the indirect use of lube, there is not a single part of me that minds.

There just isn't another feeling like it in the world, being penetrated by your lover, being impaled, right down the center of your body, as you look up into his eyes, as you lick and kiss and taste the sounds coming out of his mouth, but then … to have gravity give way and be rocking effortlessly against him in this surreal, weightless state of suspension, is just truly something eerie, perfect, magical.

That we've neglected the jacuzzi all this time is simply an apalling tragedy.

I watch the changes, the beads of sweat developing on his brow, the rising color in his cheeks. After a dozen strokes, his body stiffens. He plunges inward twice more and a beautiful storm passes over his face as the spasms begin rippling through his body. I can feel in his thighs, in his fingertips, in his spine, that he's coming. He calls out hoarsely. His lids flutter and his face is blissful indeed.

He collapses into my neck, panting with great effort.

We hold each other in the warm water.


	13. And I Won't Have That

In the morning, as the sun streams through the kitchen windows, I'm humming and grinning to myself, giddy, blinded and stupid with love. I set the table and busy myself preparing bacon, eggs, and strong black coffee. Oh, to be a wife.

Eventually he makes his way down and proves a particularly arresting sight: bare chested, robe undone and hanging off one shoulder, face still creased from the pillow, the heel of his hand jammed into one eye, rubbing it, hair sticking out in every direction, three days' beard growth; a magnificently beautiful fright.

He stops. His voice is scratchy.

"What smells?"

I take his hand and lead him to the table.

"Breakfast, my sweet." I'm no longer embarrassed.

He sits. I sit by him. We hold hands and kiss softly.

"I'm insanely in love with you, y'know."

He grins sleepily. I lean in for a quick kiss.

"Did you sleep okay?" I inquire. "You look wasted."

He yawns.

"I think I slept _too_ much."

"You were snoring, I know that."

"Was I? Sorry."

I grin. "Don't apologize. It was lovely."

"It kept you awake, though?"

"My fault. I couldn't resist turning and watching you."

With splayed fingers I attempt to comb through the ratty nest on top of his head.

"Curt, when is the last time you actually washed your hair?"

"I don't know. Days ago. Probably when you did it that time. Leftover saltwater in it, then all that chlorine from last night, and, now that I think of it," he grins, "I would imagine a bit of come, as well."

"Filthy boy."

We kiss.

I move to the stove.

"Hungry?"

"Fuck ya."

"You want bacon?"

His finger is jammed into his other eye, rubbing it.

"Yes, lots, please."

I serve a warm plate.

"Thanks."

I kiss his forehead.

"Lovely polite boy."

"Come on, now, either I'm either a filthy boy or a lovely polite boy, you can't have both."

"Yes I can, it's what I love about you- you're so well rounded."

I sit down opposite him, and watch as he wolfs down the meal.

He speaks with his mouth full.

"Are you not gonna eat?"

"Already did. Now I get to watch you."

He looks down, crumbs fall from his stuffed mouth. "Christ, this is tasty as fuck." He swallows. "I'm continually amazed there's an Englishman who can cook."

"Yes, when we're not too busy playing cricket, we make quite excellent cooks."

He squints. "Brian can you tilt that blind up a bit, the sun's right in my face."

I rise to do so.

"Pity. I was just admiring the way it glints off the highlights in your hair. You're getting blonder every day we're here, I think."

"Shit, I feel like I've barely gotten any sun since I've been in Spain." He snickers. "And we haven't even had our honeymoon yet."

He stops, semi-panicked.

"Fuck, we didn't fuck in the middle of the night last night, did we?"

"Um, no, not after midnite," I grin, "not that _I'm_ aware of."

"You didn't blow me?"

"No, Curt, I didn't. Must have been some other lucky bloke."

"Very funny." He shrugs and dips the toast into the egg. "Good, then, it was a dream."

* * *

><p>He showers and walks into the bedroom in his robe, hair clean, though uncombed. He sits down by me. I'm laying face down across the mattress, reading a travel guide. I look up.<p>

"You didn't shave."

"Too much of a fucking bother – I'm on vacation. Plus I don't think I look half bad with it."

I grin.

"You'd be right." I raise my hand to his face. "It's actually extremely becoming. Really beautiful color." I trace a finger up his cheek. "It's spectacular, actually, how it frames your jaw."

We look at each other for a moment, silently. He stands quickly.

"I'll shave."

"Good idea."

From the bathroom he shouts:

"Why don't we go out? Let's go for a walk or whatever … explore n shit."

"I was going to say the same thing." My finger holds a place on the map . "There's a place we can go where we can walk along the edge of this volcano. It's a bit of walking though, and we'll need a boat. I'll pack a picnic lunch. You'll need your trainers."

"What is that? Like, a jock strap?"

"No, of course not. Your running shoes. Tennis shoes, whatever they call them in the States."

"Oh! Sneakers!"

He laughs heartily.

* * *

><p>We suit up, and leave the house. It's a bright day, mild and sunny; perfect.<p>

We stop first in town. Curt's decided he needs a new shirt, and I'm not going to argue with him.

"Everything I have is like a hundred years old. I feel like I need to look better. You're rubbing off on me."

We select a number of possibilities and I sit in the small dressing room watching him change. Everything, of course, looks amazing on him. He talks on, turning in the mirror, asking my opinion, and all I know is that I quickly become blinded by that lovely naked torso that's continually being flashed at me. His skin is pale under the bright lights, smooth as velvet, his belly impossibly flat, while shoulders, back and chest are deliciously bumpy, the muscles compact, exactly as I like them. It's a sight I'm not at all unfamiliar with, and yet now that I can't immediately have it, it's that much more alluring, like it's a beautiful secret prize being dangled before me.

"This one, Brian. What about _this_ one?"

I'm snapped out of my reverie. He's donning a form fitting shirt, black, except for white rings round the shoulders. Exquisite.

"Oh, ya. That's the one. Definitely."

He checks the mirror.

"Good, I think so too. Maybe I'll get some pants."

"Um, Curt, no. Just the shirt. Let's go. We have a long day ahead of us."

He dashes out, calling back. "I'll just be a sec. Wait right there."

I sigh resignedly.

In a minute the curtain parts. On his arm are what look to be 12 pairs of trousers.

"Come on, we'll be here all bloody day!"

"No we won't, I'll be quick. I need new things, Brian, and I'm in a shopping mood. How often does _that_ fucking happen?"

I sit back. Then sit up quickly.

"You're wearing underwear, right?"

"No, do I ever?"

I blurt. "I don't think you're supposed to try those on without them."

"Don't worry. I jerked off in the shower, and I'm clean as a fucking whistle. Plus, how will they know?"

I shout.

"You jerked–"

"Shhhh!"

I lower my voice to a whisper.

"You jerked off in the shower?" Left unsaid: "When I was right on the other side of the wall?"

The image is suddenly very vivid and my brain is momentarily stuck on it.

"Ya, so what?" He begins removing his trousers, sliding them down over his bare ass. "Just a quickie. It was that dream I had."

"But I thought we were gonna wait," I pout.

"We _are_ gonna wait, Brian."

He steps out of the pant legs and picks up the new pair.

"So masturbation doesn't count, then?"

He stops. "I don't know." He thinks. "I've never saved myself for anyone before."

I watch as he pulls the new pants on. He faces me, and leaves the zip undone momentarily as he talks. Without looking, _all_ my eyes can see is that enticing thatch of exposed honey-colored hair.

He asks earnestly. "Should it count? I mean, are you saying men don't beat off the week prior to their wedding? I've never heard of that. Did you?"

His hands are stationary on his hips. He's waiting for my answer.

"No. I don't know. I don't remember."

"So then what do you think I should do?" He pulls his shirt up. As it goes over his face, his arms get tangled momentarily over his head. Oh me, oh my.

His voice is muffled. "Brian can you–?"

"Oh sorry."

I shoot up out of my seat and stand close, helping free him of it. His hair falls all in a lovely messy pile. Jesus, he smells good.

He goes for the zipper as I stand there. I don't dare look.

"Don't worry about this no underwear thing; I'm fine to try these on. I _really_ cleaned myself up, like _everywhere_, after I came this morning."

I gulp. I sit back down.

He turns sideways and checks the mirror, speaking matter of factly.

"Plus if you recall, my cock was _way_ deep in your ass last night, probably the deepest it's ever been, which is saying a lot, so it needed a good scrubbing anyway."

I sit up. I point without looking.

"Those are the ones." I stand. My voice is strained. "I'll be outside."

* * *

><p>I pace the crowded sidewalk, silently arguing with my cock, chanting to it. "You will <em>be<em> soft. You _will_ be soft. You will be _soft_."

The door flies open and he's got two shopping bags worth of new clothing, courtesy of my credit card, and Bijou Records. He's fixated, still.

"So what should I do? I mean, I'm undoubtedly gonna get hard at some point in the next week, probably more than once, and also, what if I come in my sleep, does that count–?"

"–Can we not talk about this right now?"

"Huh? Why?"

I sigh. "Curt, I know this whole thing is important to you and it's lovely that you wanna do the right thing and I'll support you in it no matter what, but please try and be mindful of the fact that …" I sigh. "There's two of us involved here, there's two of us who have to … abstain, in order for this to work."

He smiles. "That word you love." He kisses me quickly. A man passing by glares at us. "You're right. Sorry. I totally didn't think."

I take a bag.

"Let's drop these back at the house."

We begin walking. He reaches for my hand, between us. I take it.

People's eyes are immediately on us. I tense and drop his hand.

"What's wrong?"

"We should probably be a little more discreet."

He grabs my hand and begins swinging it between us.

"Fuck discreet."

I can immediately feel the return of unfriendly eyes.

He speaks out loud, defiantly.

"You think I give a shit what anybody thinks? I love you, Brian. We're gonna have a honeymoon together–"

"–Wedding night."

"Both! Point is, in a little over a week's time we're gonna be balling each other's brains out. So we sure as fuck have a right to hold hands."

"I know Curt, but–"

"–We're in _Europe_ for fuck's sake. Nude beaches, _topless_ beaches."

People continue to glare.

"Curt, we're in Europe, but Spain is a very macho country. You know that. Every Spanish speaking country is. And not just those. Think about us walking down the street right now in Michigan."

He stops and looks at me.

"What would happen?", I ask.

"I don't care what would happen."

"Curt, we'd get the shit kicked out of us, you know that."

"Ya, I do know it, it happened to me once, but then the 2nd time, it didn't. You just gotta stand your ground, that's what I learned."

Over his shoulder I spy two older men across the street, leaning against the wall, smoking, clearly watching us. One suddenly laughs, and holds his hand to his mouth to shout in our direction.

"¿Hey maricón, por qué usted no viene aquí y no lleva a cabo mi mano?"

("Hey queer, why don't you come over here and hold _my_ hand?")

They both laugh.

Curt turns to them.

"What did that guy say?"

I pull him along. "Nothing. I don't know. Let's go."

He stops. "Yes you do. 'Maricon', isn't that an insult?"

Several people are watching.

"Curt, we'd better go. I'm serious."

He walks slowly and shouts across the street. "Fuck you, fucking rednecks!"

'Fuck you'; universally understood.

In an instant the men have flown across the street and are confronting us. I'm petrified. My heart is banging in my chest. The first man is eyeing Curt up and down in exaggerated fashion while the other smiles threateningly.

"Usted es un hombre tan bonito."

Curt shouts to me without looking. "What did he say?"

My voice is shaking. "He said you're a very pretty man."

Curt bursts out laughing. The men seem confused, their hostility instantly deflated.

"Tell him he has excellent taste, but that I don't find _him_ very pretty."

"Curt–"

He shouts. "–Tell him!"

I translate.

The man takes a drag on his cigarette and shrugs his shoulders.

"Qué él importa si soy bonito, usted es el faggot."

People move around us on the sidewalk. Thankfully no one stops to listen.

Curt speaks to me, maintaining the man's gaze.

"Brian?"

"He said, 'what does it matter if I'm pretty, you're the'–"

"-'Faggot', ya, that I understood. Tell him he's right that I'm a faggot. Tell him since he bothered to come all the way across the street to tell me something I already know, that it's a sure sign he's got a long-standing conflict going on within himself. Tell him it's his lucky day- even though I find him incredibly unattractive, I'll help him resolve that conflict, for 1900 pesos, up front. Tell him I'm dead serious- it's a genuine offer, and if he meets me in the back alley over there, no one will be the wiser."

The men look to me, as I translate.

"Tell him that I'm not wearing any underwear, so it will be that much quicker, and if he doesn't believe me, I'll prove it to him right this second. Tell him I've got the finest, rounded, tightest ass in the whole of Spain, and that I guarantee he won't be disappointed."

I giggle under my breath, despite myself.

"Tell them I'll do them both- two for one. Tell them I can suck chrome off a bumper."

I swallow back the urge to burst out laughing. "Curt, stop it!"

"Tell him I'll give him exactly 30 seconds to accept my offer."

"Okay, okay! Shut up for a second and let me translate!"

He continues to hold the man's gaze, and begins counting off. He's enjoying this way too much. Admittedly, so am I. When I get to the bit about the bumper, I can't help but nod solemnly and add, "Estoy asustado, caballeros, que es verdad.", ("I'm afraid, gentlemen, that it's true.")

The men look visibly flummoxed and uncomfortable. This was not at all the easy fag bashing they had imagined.

"BING!", Curt shouts. "Time's up assholes!" He takes my hand and we turn and walk confidently away. Out of the corner of my eye I swear I can see one of the men look down at Curt's ass, after which, they cross to the other side, soundly defeated. This is not a story they will be repeating to their friends.

* * *

><p>I'm flying, laughing, giddy, and actually have to stop myself from jumping up and down and squealing with joy. We, or rather Curt, absolutely kicked ass. We walk away like kings at a conquest, striding hand in hand, unscathed, through the masses, the plebians, drawing many glares but not one crack. It's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.<p>

"Shit, Curt, what if that guy had taken you up on your offer?"

He shrugs. "Then we'd be 1900 pesos richer!"

We burst out laughing.

"You wouldn't have let him fuck you, though?"

"Why not? It wouldn't be the first time I did it for money."

I stop and look at him.

"What are you talking about?"

He stops and returns the looks, dead serious.

"Nothing."

He starts to walk.

I shout after him.

"Curt, you cannot possibly drop a bomb like that and walk away!"

"It's nothing. I misspoke. Seriously. Forget it."

I catch up to him and take his hand.

"No, I won't!"

He looks at me.

"Brian, I misspoke, okay?"

"Meaning what exactly?"

He's visibly flustered.

"Meaning … nothing. It doesn't matter. I don't wanna discuss it."

"Why?"

"_Because_ … I don't want to."

"Why?"

"Because!" he snaps. "It doesn't matter! End of discussion!"

He walks quickly. I trail him.

"End of discussion? So you get to decide when our conversations end?"

He walks on in brooding silence. I let him for a minute before speaking.

"Curt, come on. You're keeping something from me and it feels really shitty."

He slows. He stops. He looks down. He mumbles.

"Look, it's … it's just … Brian, I mean … maybe there are … maybe there are just some things I'd rather you didn't know about."

"But why ?"

He blurts.

"Because … maybe if you knew …"

"What? I'd stop loving you, you arsehole? Don't insult me, please."

We look at eachother.

"Curt, you told me about the rape. You told me about your brother, and the time in the hospital and the suicide attempts. Fuck, I personally stopped you from slitting your own throat less than a week ago, or have you forgotten? I think I've proven I can be trusted with the heavy stuff, don't you?"

He sighs.

"Yes."

I squeeze his hand. "Remember we talked about trust? That means you don't hold things back. Because it's like lying."

We resume walking.

He's looking down, thinking.

"Okay. You're right- leaving things out is a form of lying."

"Yes, it is. We shouldn't keep secrets from each other."

"Well, it wasn't something I was actively keeping secret. I just …" He hesitates.

I whisper. I touch his chest.

"It's okay. You can tell me."

He sighs. He looks off.

"Brian it … it was … it was another heroin thing. It's just … it's a drug that makes you … do things, y'know? I personally don't know a single addict that hasn't … you know … jesus christ, this is … this is fucking hard to talk about … that hasn't gone out and peddled his own ass at some point."

My gut tightens.

"Go on."

"Rich rock stars, people on your level, maybe not. But heroin is like … it makes you … extremely broke and extremely desperate, extremely fast. Hence …"

"Hence, you fucked somebody for it, for money."

"Ya."

I'm silent for a minute, processing the shock that comes with having it confirmed.

"I knew it. I shouldn't have told you."

"No, I just … Curt, naturally it pains me to think of you having to do that, that's all."

"But that's the magical thing about "H". Once it takes over your life, you no longer have a single say. You're literally a slave to it."

We're almost at the house.

"I'm sorry."

"No matter. It's in the past."

"Did you, I mean, … do you mind if I ask you about it?"

He sighs.

"Go ahead. Now that you know, what's the point of glossing it over?"

"Well, when did you, I mean, was it … just that one time?"

He looks at me.

"No."

Oh god. It's _so_ upsetting to hear. I try to look undisturbed, but it shows on my face. Worse, I can feel him stiffening and backing away. I hate that he feels I'm judging him. I hate that a part of me is. And before you judge _me_, try and go through it yourself- have the person you're madly in love with tell you he's prostituted himself, sold his own body, the one that you've kissed and stroked and worshiped, and see if you don't feel your stomach pitch.

The silence between us, the discomfort, is incredibly awkward. I can't bear it. I force myself to speak- literally, I have to push the words out of my mouth to form a question I do _not_ want know the answer to. Or, otherwise, he will _know_ I'm judging him, and I won't have that.

"Tell me about it."

He fidgets. "Brian, I'm just … I'm feeling pretty … I hate you knowing I'm scum."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're not. It's just an uncomfortable topic. Please. It's better that I know than don't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But … I mean … what do you wanna know?"

"Everything. It's better that I know."

He fidgets. I speak softly, encouragingly.

"Just, I mean … when would it happen? What would bring it about?"

Sigh. Long pause. Then he speaks quietly.

"There would be … y'know, spells where I'd happen upon some money. I'd borrow, or sell or steal shit, or the band would be making bits of money here and there. Ten bucks, fifteen bucks. Then there would be dry spells where absolutely nothing would be coming through, no legitimate prospects for cash, I'd have used up all my favors, I couldn't get a job to save my life, etc. _That's_ when it would happen."

"What would you do?"

He sighs and hesitates again before speaking.

"Well, see … in Detroit, like I'm sure in most cities, there's these known … pickup spots. Street corners and shit, where men would, y'know … drive by and pick up boys. That's where I'd go."

My gut twists. I feel sick.

"It was alright, though. In general I could watch out for myself. I was better off than some."

"How ?"

"Some of the kids, these little street boys, some of them were like fucking 13, 14 years old. Sickening. Just desperate cases. And being that young, they just had … bad fucking instincts, I guess, and the absolute worst scumbags would prey upon them, always. I was lucky. I wasn't whoring myself full time, it was only when the need arose, either for smack, or before smack … for a meal, or a roof over my head."

"I thought it was only when you were on heroin …?"

We've arrived at the house and walk inside. He puts the bags down and goes to the fridge for a drink. He doesn't look at me.

"I'm gonna take a quick piss upstairs. I'll bring these with me."

I grab a drink for myself and sit at the table. With each passing second it's eating at me. I'm terrified of what else I might hear, but I know I need to hear it.

After a couple of minutes he comes down. He heads for the door.

"Ready?"

"Curt …" I reach for his hand. "Tell me. Finish the story."

He sighs, exasperated suddenly.

"Brian, what's the point?"

"The point is that I wanna know everything about you. I want the complete picture, because I care, and it just feels absolutely wrong, otherwise, you editing yourself. Please."

He sits. We hold hands across the table.

"What do you wanna know?"

I screw up my courage.

"Tell me about before heroin."

"Brian …" Big sigh. "It's a long fucking story. Long like a motherfucker."

"It's okay."

"I mean, _really_ long, and involved. There's a lot to it. I'm not sure how you'll feel about it."

"Tell me, Curt."

"We may not get our picnic today."

"Fuck the bloody picnic. I don't want frivolous things. I want the truth."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note …<strong>

Just wanted to mention that the way I've written Curt is in some ways influenced by the character of Stuart Alan Jones from the brilliant and flawless British series Queer As Folk (not to be confused with the poorly done American version of this series). Stuart and Curt are each unashamed with regards to their (in Curt's case bi-, in Stuart's case, homo-) sexuality, and are each entirely unafraid of aggressively confronting homo-haters. Stuart I'm betting is a gay hero and icon and I definitely wanted some of that swagger and confidence for my version of Curt.


	14. Curt at 17 Part 1

**AUTHOR'S WARNING**: To this point, our story has had two characters – Brian and Curt, both aged 25, interacting with each other in the present tense. The next few chapters takes a sharp turn, containing essentially a very long monologue by Curt, who is recounting a complicated consensual relationship (sexual and otherwise) between himself as a minor (age 17) and an adult male - a teacher at his school. Obviously sex with a minor is illegal and I do not condone it. Be warned that the next few chapters contain, among other things (and like most of the rest of this story), sexual activity and language that is of a very graphic nature.

* * *

><p>"Before the magic of heroin, when I was 17, I dropped out of school. I barely went by that time anyway, and at 17 the truant officers stopped hassling you, so on my birthday that day, I ditched school, officially. I'd been living at home til then, but when my father found out, he kicked me out. Last straw, and all that.<p>

I was getting my first band together and I figured I could get by on that, but of course it didn't work. I ended up living in these squatter's flats, like, semi-abandoned places, 15 kids to a room, roaches, rats, no heat, the whole bit. Unhealthy. Nasty.

Then one day a few months later, this teacher from my school, anatomy teacher, who was also my music teacher, somehow found out where I was staying. I have no idea how. I had noticed him sneaking looks at me sometimes, out in the hallways and shit, and all the time in music class but overall I thought he was okay. We got along. He was better than some of them. He seemed to at least give a shit.

Anyway, this guy comes to the flophouse, out of the blue, one day. He says he wants to talk to me and will I walk out to his car with him?

I remember I was high – on pot, I mean. No "H" in my life yet. Everybody in the room was on something. So I said ya, whatever. I could barely see straight. So we walked outside, and he said he was really concerned about me and really disappointed and upset when he found out I'd ditched school and gotten kicked out of my house, because he said I was bright and I wasn't a bad kid … so he'd sought me out. He said he was really sorry to see me living in such squalor, and then he said, would I wanna come and stay at his house for a while. He said he had a spare room and if I needed a place to stay that was warm and clean, I could have it if I wanted.

Now, I was young, but I was hardly the average 17 year old, y'know? I knew there would be some price to pay. Plus I could just feel the vibes coming off of him, like sexual ones. But at the same time, there was just something about him. He just seemed, I don't know … decent."

He pauses.

"I'm just … feeling all these emotions thinking about this."

He looks at me.

"The thing is Brian, it sounds bad, but it's not really an entirely bad story. The guy cared about me. He was one of the very few adults who did. Ya, it had a sexual angle to it, especially as time passed, but he was in love with me too. A little too obsessively, maybe, but he was also afraid of me, I think. He knew he could be locked away for it, that his whole entire life would be completely fucked. So it wasn't like a situation where only he had the power."

He looks down. He pauses a long while.

"You still want me to go on?"

"Yes. If it's okay with you."

He takes out a cig, lights it, and continues.

"Well, so, like I said, I sort of knew he wasn't a lunatic, like I knew if I went to his house he wasn't going to keep me locked in a cage in the cellar or chop me up or something. He was popular and well-liked at school and he seemed somewhat decent. Kids trusted him. He fucking volunteered at the local soup kitchen, even."

"So I said to him," he smiles, "Shit, I was all brazen about it, as if I did this every day. I said, 'what are the terms?' I must have heard that line in a movie or something." He laughs. "I can't imagine I came up with it on my own."

"Anyway, I remember he stiffened up. It seemed to make him uncomfortable, that I was being blunt, that I was gonna make him cough it up. I was standing there waiting, looking him dead in the eye, and he was fidgeting and shit. It was like this awkward pause, I almost felt bad for him, and at first he said there were no terms, that it was a sincere offer of a place to stay, and I must have looked at him skeptical, and then he finally blurted it out, that … he said he was a teacher, that was the thing he loved, the thing he was passionate about, the thing he lived for- his love of imparting knowledge. And he said if I wasn't adverse to the idea, but only if I wasn't, he'd like to teach me things."

"Teach you things? Teach you _what_ things?"

"Exactly what I said. And he said, he'd like to teach me about my body, and mostly …"

He smiles and looks down. He's embarrassed.

"… about my mouth, but only if I agreed to it." He bursts out laughing. "Can you believe that?"

"No I can't; it sounds awful. I don't find it funny at all."

"But it's so _hokey_ to say that to someone, that you wanna teach them about their own mouth. But it wasn't hokey. He had _very_ specific plans for what he wanted to do with my mouth, or rather, my throat."

My heart plummets.

"Oh, no. Oh, Curt."

I lean to hold him.

"I shouldn't have told you."

I kiss his neck.

"No, that's not it. It's just that it makes me so bloody sad. You were just a baby."

"But I wasn't. You cannot confuse me with the average 17 year old, Brian. I'd lived an awful damn lot by that age."

He rubs my back.

"Look, I know this is hard to listen to. It's just that … Brian, it sounds nuts to you, I know- it's impossible to understand if you weren't there, but … I don't hold it against him, any of it. He was lonely and horny and it just got directed at me, that's all. He cared about me, he honestly did."

"Ya, he cared about taking advantage of you."

"No, wait. Hear me out about this. Like I said, it's a long story. Wait til the end to draw your conclusions."

We part. He takes another drink and a puff.

"I went back into the rathole flat. He waited outside for me. I gathered up my fleabitten pillow and like the 2 shirts I owned, my toothbrush, my guitar- I didn't even have a case for it, and got in his car, and we left. On the way, I pressed him. It seemed to make him uncomfortable, talking business, or something, but he finally said he'd pay me 100 bucks. Which believe me, blew my mind- that was _way_ more money than I'd ever seen in my life."

"We got to his place, and it was a pretty fucking nice house. Big. 2 car garage, good neighborhood, pool, even. We got inside, and it was all nice. Big country kitchen. Fireplace in the living room. He came from money. He sure wouldn't have made any at Detroit public schools. Anyway, we went upstairs and he showed me my room, which of course, was right across the hall from his."

"Oh, Curt."

"If you want me to stop, just say it, Brian."

"No, I meant what I said. Go on. Sorry."

"It was all nicely appointed. Clean, well kept. Antiques. To me it was all like Buckingham Palace, compared to the rotten trailer I grew up in.

So we went back downstairs and he made me a warm meal for lunch. And he sat at the table and we talked 'business'.

But the funny thing was, he was so polite and formal, it's hilarious when I think about it now. This was like some bizarro twisted black comedy, for sure. He told me I could stay as long as I liked, and leave at any point if I wanted, that he'd make me breakfast before he left for work, and dinner when he got back, but it was up to me to make my own lunch.

Do you see what I mean? I'm sitting at this guy's kitchen table, big stove, nice linens and all, we're discussing _meals_ for fuck's sake, it's this normal homey domestic suburban scene, right? Except looming on the horizon, if he'd only get to it, were all the details about my oral duties."

He laughs. I frown.

"So being the somewhat ornery child that I was, I said, in effect, look, can you stop with the window dressing and get to the fucking point? What exactly do you wanna do with my mouth?"

He laughs again. My frown broadens.

"He again seemed uncomfortable. He was too well educated, well bred. He'd obviously never done this before and it was hard for him to just blurt it out. He said again, it was only if I was willing. He said regardless, he'd be decent to me, he'd never force me. He said he wouldn't even really touch me, but that he merely wanted to combine his two greatest loves- teaching, … and my mouth. I said, well how? And he asked me if I'd ever had oral sex with a guy before, and I said ya. Little did he know of course, that it was with my brother, but anyway, he said, well, do you know what deep throat is?"

I raise his hand to my mouth. It's so bloody hard to hear, it just twists me up.

"And of course, I'd never heard that term before, and I said no. And he said, he didn't think I would have, and that's what he wanted to teach me – how to deep throat."

"I asked him what it was, and he told me. Then he said he was sorry to be blunt, and he hoped it didn't sound really awful, and that he didn't mean to offend me. He said I could leave right then if I wanted to, he'd drive me back home, and he promised he'd never bother me again, but that he hoped I would consider it. And then he reiterated that he'd pay me 100 bucks.

So I'm sitting there thinking, okay, it's the middle of the winter in Detroit and I really have nowhere decent to go, and what has fallen into my lap out of the sky is an offer of a free bed- my own room, even; safe, clean surroundings; free hot meals, 100 bucks a week, and all I have to do for this windfall is blow this guy, who wasn't even half bad looking? Brian, believe me, I felt like I'd won the motherfucking lottery."

"How old was he?"

"37."

"So, shit, more than twice your age."

"Oh, ya. An adult, for sure. Married, divorced, established career, money, the whole bit. Total sugar daddy."

"So what did you finally say to him?"

"Shit, I said yes! I doubt I hesitated. He seemed really pleased, of course. Relieved, like. He immediately gave me my own key to the house, and he showed me where things were. I mean, it's bizarre, you know? Aside from the obvious reasons for it being bizarre- I mean, he had no way of knowing if I'd rob him or kill him or whatever. The house was full of stealable stuff- tvs and stereos and electronics and shit. But I certainly wasn't about to ruin my new found pot of fucking gold.

So I finished the meal and I turned to him and I said, so do you wanna do this now? I was eager for my money, see. And he said no, it will be at night. We'll both go to bed, in our own rooms. He said there wouldn't be any actual sex and he wouldn't touch me, but at some point he'll come into the room and he'll wake me up. He said I won't have to do anything- he'll already be hard, and he'll want it then."

"God."

"Ya, do you like how planned out this was? He was burning for it, obviously. He had it down to the final, minute detail. He said it will be awkward at first, uncomfortable, and that I'd have to be patient, but after I learned how, it wouldn't take long, maybe only a coupla minutes, and then he'd walk out and leave me alone. And in the morning he'd pay me."

"Unbelievable."

"Truly. So I said, well how often? And he hesitated. I don't think he wanted to tell me. But then he finally said, well, ideally, at least at first, he'd like it to be every night."

"Oh no."

"Because it will take some getting used to, and I'll forget what to do if we wait too long in between. I guess he had a point there, but I'm totally deflated now. Suddenly 100 bucks is like a total rip off if I'm gonna be expected to be on duty 7 nights a week, right? I mean, come on. So he sees that I'm sort of backing away, and he says he knows it sounds like a lot, but again, once I get the hang of it, it will only be a couple of minutes of my time. And then he says, a few minutes for a hundred dollars is pretty good, he thinks.

And so I'm mulling this over in my head, and then it suddenly hits me: 'A few minutes for a hundred dollars'. So I asked him to explain that part of it to me again, and he says it's a hundred bucks PER. Not a week, but a fucking NIGHT!"

"Oh my GOD!"

"He said he was sorry he didn't explain it well enough before, that of course he wouldn't expect me to accept 100 bucks for a whole week."

"But where did he get the bloody money?"

"His family. He was an only child of a bigwig in the auto industry, Both his father and his grandfather made huge money, particularly during the war. He was the shy, arty son who didn't like mechanical stuff, which they frowned upon, of course, but he was the sole fucking heir so it all came to him."

"Imagine if they knew what he was spending it on."

"Oh, they had an idea about him. I mean, he was straight-acting. He wasn't some simpering queen, but year after year of the 'I just haven't met the right girl' excuse and they finally had enough. They married him off to this other bigwig's rich daughter. No big surprise it didn't last- and they didn't have kids.

And the other thing was, until I came along, he hadn't spent any of it, he told me. He said he didn't have anyone to spend it _on_- so he hadn't been able to enjoy it. Then suddenly there's this pathetic, dead broke kid in his life, and for the first time he has the opportunity to play freakin Santa Claus. He totally got off on that- spending it on me."

"He bought you things?"

"Ya. I think that's pretty much the definition of a sugar daddy, isn't it?"

"Like what things?"

"Whatever I wanted. I mean, I tried not to take too much advantage. I think the most expensive thing I bought was a new amp for my guitar. The rest was just clothes, records, books, stuff like that. And I went and saw bands all the time, movies."

"Did he ever go with you?"

"Not at first, no."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't that kind of a relationship in the beginning. He was like my … mentor. Besides, we were decades apart- how much could we have had in common?"

"Well, an interest in sex."

"But even that was like mentoring. You know, there are primitive tribes that for centuries have had older men initiate young boys. I wasn't technically a virgin, I didn't need to be 'initiated', but he did teach me a huge amount sexually."

I shake my head slowly.

"I'm sorry. It just makes me incredibly uncomfortable, the thought of this older guy touching you when you were so young. I'm amazed you don't see this in a more negative light, especially given your history."

He looks at me angrily.

"Brian, do you honestly think for a single second that if I'd felt like I was being molested that I would have gone back there?"

"Maybe you were confused. You were just a kid."

"No, I guarantee you, there would have been no confusion. I've been through it; you haven't."

We begin shouting.

"But he was paying you! You had no place to live and you needed money; you were desperate, and he took advantage of that!"

"No he didn't! I could've left whenever I wanted! I would have found someplace to crash! I always did!"

"Curt, he was deep throating a 17 year old boy!"

"Ya, and the 17 year old boy got really good at it! Not to mention, he was paid handsomely! What's wrong, Brian, are you jealous?"

Ouch. We look at each other. We don't speak for a couple of minutes, in an attempt to cool down.

"Curt, you know what I'm saying. You can't expect me to like the sound of it."

"But it's because you didn't know him, or I haven't been imparting the story well enough. Brian, I was a fractured, broken, kid and he provided the one thing in the world I was desperate for, but didn't even realize: stability. And in the meantime, he was nurturing, he was incredibly gentle and kind, he never bullshitted me, he never pressured me. He constantly gave me an out in case I wanted to go. For what he asked of me, I got tons and tons in return, and I don't just mean the money.

And the thing about the money is, the truth was, if he'd stopped paying me, I still would have stayed. The money was a way to get me in the door, yes, but from that point on, it wasn't the most important thing. It was having somebody that cared, that actually gave a shit, that watched out for me. And he genuinely did. He brought me to the doctor when I had the flu, and he stayed home from work and took care of me and cleaned up the vomit and gave me aspirin and ginger ale and all that. He didn't boot me out the door and tell me to go fuck myself. He helped me set up a bank account for the money for fuck's sake, in my own name, first one I'd ever had, and he talked to me about saving it and being smart with it. Being a teacher, he helped me get my GED after I dropped out. He made sure I studied and that I passed; there was no way I would have done that, otherwise. Even my father didn't give enough of a shit to do that. Did you know that he never even once sought me out to find out what happened to me after he threw me out of the house? Nobody in my family did.

And also, this guy, he never talked to me the way adults always did, like I was an idiot just cuz I was young; he talked to me like an equal. He turned me on to art, and museums, and stuff like that. There were dozens of examples. The sex, especially as time passed, was pretty fucking nice, but it was just the gravy."

I squint.

"So you had sex with him? It wasn't just oral?"

"Okay, like I think, good as deep throat may be, it would get pretty fucking tedious, not to mention jaw-breaking, after 6 months."

"Six MONTHS ! ?"

He laughs.

"You lived with him for 6 _months _?"

"Yes, Brian. How long did you think I lived there?"

"Well I never imagined 6 months! Holy shit! That was a big chunk of your life up til that point!"

"Ya, I guess it was."

I'm mulling it over, tapping my fingers on the table. It's on the tip of my tongue. There's a long pause but I can't bring myself to spit it out.

"What, Brian? Ask."

"You don't have to answer. I can't help but be curious about this. What happened, I mean … there's no way to put this gently. What happened with the deep throat? In the beginning I mean. And why did it stop?"

"Well, it never really stopped, it just wasn't every single day like it had been in the beginning."

"Jesus, every single day. Fucking animal!"

"Brian, will you quit with that shit! How many times do I have to tell you I _willingly_ partook in it ? There was no victim here, much as you seem to want to think there was."

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry. Go on."

"You _sure_ about that?"

"Yes, tell me the fucking story."

He sighs.

"Well, the deal was … we'd go to bed, our own beds, in our own rooms. And at some point in the night, he'd open my door and the hallway light would usually wake me up- I was a light sleeper even back then.

I think he liked the middle of the night thing because it had that element of spontaneity. Most people, they get in bed, they fuck, they go to sleep. Dull. Routine.

So, the first night, I was like way too fucking nervous and starting to wonder what the fuck I'd gotten myself in to. I'm lying awake staring in the dark at the ceiling for like hours. Then the door opens and I practically leap off the bed. I actually stood up on it, bolt upright, and I'm breathing pretty hard. Just nervous out of my mind."

"Awful! That's enough! I don't wanna hear anymore."

"Brian, for fuck's sake, come on, you didn't expect I wouldn't have been nervous the first time, would you? I'm just being honest. But I promise you, it wasn't like that the whole way, okay? Relax."

"Okay, okay. I still wanna murder this guy, but go on."

"So he walks in, and I remember he had on a robe, a tshirt, and some sort of pajama bottoms. Nothing too sexy, I can assure you. But like I said, he was fairly attractive. He was fit, he had a full head of hair, nice eyes. Not bad to look at. At least he wasn't some creepy drooling fat guy.

Anyway, I'm standing there on the bed, in my boxers. I used to sleep nude even then, but I wasn't about to in his house.

And he looks at me and he asks if I'm okay and I said 'ya', I'm sure, but I must have had that total deer in headlights look. He said, look, Curt, it's okay if you're not comfortable with this, we don't have to do this right now. He said he was patient and he'd wait until I was ready, we could skip it, if I wanted.

So suddenly I get scared and I'm thinking I'm blowing the whole thing. He's gonna cancel the whole deal if I don't get my ass in gear quick, and there goes all my money. So I climbed off the bed and I sat on the edge and I forced myself to speak calmly, and I said I was alright, really, I was a little nervous, but I was okay. Totally lying of course, but …

So he said, it's okay to be nervous. He said he was too, which blew my mind. I just didn't expect that for some reason. And he said again, are you absolutely sure? And I said yes, and said something like, what do you want me to do?

And he said lie down on the bed like you were. He was standing at the head of the bed, right by the door. So I did. He looked down at me and he was quiet for a minute.

And then he started talking, believe it or not, about anatomy, and physiology and shit. But see, that was his passion, and the subjects he taught at school. He talked about it all the time. Even though I didn't take any of his classes, to this day I can still recite the names of the 8 bones in the wrist. But at that moment I was like, what the fuck is this shit? He started to say how flawed the design was, that the human mouth is at a 90 degree angle to the throat, but how that was easily remedied by tilting the head backward."

"Jesus Christ."

"Ya, but I didn't really understand what the fuck he was getting at. I'm like, what does that have to do with anything? And he said Curt, men have this innate, instinctual drive to plunge themselves deep into a cavity, right? And I said ya. He said it's no different with oral- we still have this need to go deep, but we can't all that easily, because of the flawed design. That's where the head tilting comes in.

And I'm like, okay. I still didn't understand how it would work.

So he looked at me and he said, are you still okay about this? And I said ya. He said are you absolutely sure, that he wanted me to be comfortable, and I totally lied again and said I was cool with it.

And he said okay, I just need you to move down the mattress until your head is off the edge, so I did. And then he had me move further cuz I hadn't gone far enough. So now everything from my point of view was upside down, of course, which was kinda weird. And he pulled this little miniature padded stool out and placed it under me, so that the top of my head was resting on it, just for comfort. He was a detail person, can you tell?"

"Umm, ya."

"And shit, my heart was banging like a fucking racehorse, I was _so_ fucking nervous. I remember he opened his robe and I was looking upside at those loose pajama bottoms and for the first time I could see his erection, which was right at the exact level.

And he said to me Curt, this is probably going to feel weird to you, and a bit uncomfortable, so there's a couple of things we can do. He said he had this stuff that would temporarily numb the back of my mouth- a small squirt bottle. He said he had a friend who was a dentist and he promised me it was totally safe to use, they used it all the time at his friend's practice. He said it was up to me, but that it would make things a lot easier for both of us. So I took a few squirts and it was almost like a bit of novacaine- it numbed it up back there, which was definitely strange, but I could see the advantage in it.

Then he said okay, if you need to signal me about anything or if you want me to stop, raise your hand and I'll stop. If you want me to pull out, raise both hands. If you have any trouble at all or if you decide you can't do this, please let me know right away, I don't want to ever feel like you weren't okay with this.

So do you see what I mean, Brian? This was typical of him- he was incredibly sensitive and attentive."

"Ya, I guess. I still don't like it, but … go on."

He sighs.

"So then the final thing he said was, I should try and breathe on the outstroke."

"Shit! That's heavy."

"Ya. He said I would pick up the rhythm, and it shouldn't be a problem. And then … he took out his cock, which, I have to say, was a _very_ decent size. It was sort of the last thing I wanted right then- I guess I'd been hoping it would be this pencil dick."

"Oh, Curt."

"And he approached, and the funny thing was, I'm so nervous and this is so weird, the hanging upside down thing, that I didn't even think. He had to actually ask me to open my mouth."

He laughs. I smile despite myself.

"So obviously … I did and he … went in and … I shut my eyes. He was clean at least- he was very meticulous about that stuff.

And I just remember he went really slow, it was this very … gradual entry and, oh shit, I forgot to tell you. He gave me one more tip beforehand: he said to go into a yawn, because it opens up the back of your throat."

"Huh?"

"It's true- next time you yawn, look in the mirror. It creates like a 2 inch cavity back there."

"Wow, I never knew."

"Ya. So as he continued, I went into a yawn, and he pushed into it, and there was just this feeling of being … filled up. He held his ball sac away, cuz I think it would have smothered me otherwise."

"God! I can't believe what I'm hearing. Did you not gag?"

"A little at first, but then the urge passed. The stuff I'd taken numbed me up pretty well."

"Fuck, I guess."

"And then, I mean, … it was pretty overwhelming. I immediately realized how worlds different this was from any oral I'd ever known. This was like seriously advanced stuff and it took like 1000% of your concentration and focus. I didn't like it all that much at first; it was fucked up and strange, but then, there was no way for me to be objective about it at that point- I was too caught up in it, literally. It was only with time that I began to appreciate and understand the erotic side to it, that feeling of being possessed, and 'taken', and stuff.

So, he says to me you're doing amazingly well; he would always tell me stuff like that. And he said if it was okay with me he would like to start moving. Polite, or what? I mean, how many guys have you ever known who would _ask _? And he said to raise my hand if I was okay with that. And I did. And he just pulled away and began these little baby thrusts, in and out. I was numb but I could still feel the pressure in there, just the feeling of having this cavity filled up and closed off momentarily, and I totally began the rhythmic breathing to match his strokes. Otherwise I pretty much couldn't breathe cuz he was blocking the airway."

"Fucking animal!"

"Brian, if you say that one more time I'm gonna fucking … do you want me to tell this story or not? I thought you wanted the truth and not some dressed up cleaned up version of my life? He wasn't _trying_ to fucking suffocate me for fuck's sake, so stop throwing a fit. It was just the sheer mechanics of it. You've had cocks down your throat, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

"I told you, my few attempts at this stuff were disasters–."

"–Well I guess I had a better teacher than you, didn't I?"

We're back to 2 minutes of silence while we cool off.

"Please don't snap at me because I'm protective of you, okay? I love you; I can't help it. And no matter what you say, you were just a young kid, and …"

"And this was one of the few good periods in that young kid's life. Some of it was awkward and stumbling and is probably hard to hear, but ultimately, if that kid had to do those 6 months over again, he would, in a flash. Trust me on this, Brian, okay?"

I sigh. "Okay."

"Now shall I go on or are you going to keep jumping in and protecting me?"

"Fuck off. I said I trust you, didn't I? Go ahead."

He looks up, thinking.

"Where the fuck did I leave off?"

"Thrusting."

"Oh, ya. He made these like … shallow thrusts and after, I don't know, maybe a dozen, he inhaled this big breath and then he came. I felt this fluid stuff sliding down my throat and instinctively I swallowed, but it was sort of almost past the point of swallowing. I couldn't really taste anything. I don't know, I can't really describe it. He explained it to me later but that part I never understood.

And then he carefully pulled out and he was standing there panting and I think my eyes must have been like saucers. It was a pretty huge moment. I couldn't believe I'd done it- it had worked, my very first time- I was sort of proud of that, and at the same time, I was still so nervous and freaked, and also, just exhausted; physically and emotionally spent. The whole thing took maybe 5 minutes, but to me it was like a fucking hour."

He's looking off, pensive, for long moments.

I touch his hand. "What is it?"

He speaks softly.

"It's just, it just conjures up a lot of emotions …"

"Do you wanna take a break?"

He sighs. "Ya, maybe."

* * *

><p>We stop to have our picnic lunch, with wine, out in the lounge chairs, relaxing in the sun, tucking our toes in the warm sand, holding hands, sitting silently for long stretches, and talking for longer ones. Somehow we end up discussing 40′s Film Noir and Bogie &amp; Bacall.<p>

"The most gorgeous woman of all time. Really. She was sizzling hot. And smart as a bloody whip."

"Ya, AND she was fucking 19 when she met Bogie, and he was 45! So I don't feel so fucking bad about fucking 17 and 37!"

He looks off and laughs.

"What?"

"I love that I just compared myself to Lauren Bacall."

* * *

><p>After lunch he goes for a long swim.<p>

He returns, running a towel over his hair and body, cig ever dangling.

"How was it?"

"Fantastic. I can't believe you never go in. You do not know what you're fucking missing. I'm gonna drag you in with me next time, I swear."

"I don't think so."

He plops down next to me.

"So, shall I resume the freaking dreaded story or have you had enough for one day?"

"No. You left me at a bit of a cliffhanger. Go on."

"What cliffhanger?"

"The guy had just come."

"Oh, right. So … yes … um … I remember he was standing there, and I'm lying there looking up at him, upside down. And he says are you okay? And I said ya, I guess. And he goes to remove the little stool and says why don't you slide yourself back up on the bed, so I did. And he walked around the side of the bed. And as was typical of him, he was incredibly polite and sweet and he said that he hoped it hadn't been a bad experience for me, that he knew I was nervous but he thinks it went extremely well especially for my first time. And he said it was very exciting for him and stuff like that. And he thanked me. He always thanked me; it was sincere, but it was still a bit weird."

"Ya."

"But that was just his way. And he said goodnight, and left."

"Wow. I absolutely can't imagine. What on earth did you do?"

"I laid there stock still, like frozen in place. I couldn't relax for a long, long while. It was all so surreal! _Everything_, and all of it happening in the same day! I couldn't believe that like 12 hours before I'd been living in the flophouse and now here I was in this fancy antique bed with feather pillows at this guy's place- a teacher at my school! Then at some point, sleep took over I guess. I was just, phew, pooped.

In the morning, I woke up not knowing where the fuck I was. I literally thought it was a dream. I finally got up, took a shower. He had his own bathroom – it was a part of his bedroom suite, and then I had one next to my bedroom door.

In the shower I'm all a mix of confused emotions. On the one hand I was panicking thinking, how do I know any of what he's said is true? That he'll pay me and all that? How do I know he won't fucking attack me ? That whole thing again. But on the other hand … I felt okay about it. In my gut I felt like I could trust him for some reason. I always liked him, and he was just known as being a decent guy at school, somebody kids could go to with their problems, and then I was like, well maybe this is what he does to the kids that go to him! He takes them home and face-fucks them! Maybe I'm just one in a long line! And all that."

"Strictly playing devil's advocate … how do you know that wasn't the case?"

"Because it wasn't. If it had been, I would have heard about it. Stuff like that gets around lightning fast. How long do you think it was before everybody in school knew about me and my brother? People thrive on that shit."

"But then, so why were you worried?"

"It was just momentary panic, that's all, as part of that first morning after panic/freakout over the whole thing. You don't have to worry, Brian. I lived with the guy full time for 6 months. He wasn't a child molester- I know what I'm talking about."

"Okay, just I thought it was a fair question, and you raised the issue."

"I know. It _is_ a fair question. You're right." He sighs. "Look, it's not like I advocate older men pursuing underage boys or something. I'm sure in 99% of those cases, that it _is_ molestation and abuse. And of _course_ I'm against that. I can only say that, in _my_ case, I know it was _not_."

"Okay. I understand; I believe you. I won't bring it up again. Go on. You were in the shower pondering all that had happened."

"Um, ya. Shit, what happened. Oh … I'm running over it in my mind, the throatjob, and all that, and then I look down, and to my surprise, … I'm hard."

"Wow."

"Ya. The thing was, what we did hadn't felt sexual at all when we were doing it- not to me anyway. Not one bit. It was matter of fact, something I needed to get through. And yet in the shower, I started picturing it, and … I ended up beating off to that image."

"Hmm."

"It was like, my body understood that what had happened was sexual, it was just my _brain_ that had to catch up, because it was all so new and strange. But when it came down to it, it was something primal, like I think oral always is- you don't get more primal than that. And you never need to explain primal to the body. That's my theory, anyway."

"So did you feel attracted to him?"

"I don't think I did in the beginning. Eventually, yes, but not then."

"So what happened? You went down to breakfast?"

"Ya, I put on my grubby clothes and walked into this clean, nice smelling kitchen, and there he was at the table grading tests. He always did that over breakfast. I was suddenly so embarrassed I started to turn around to go back upstairs, but he called after me. He said he'd made breakfast and to please come and eat, he'd just be a minute and then he had to go. So I couldn't exactly take off, y'know?

I went to the table and I just couldn't look at him; too mortified. The good thing was, he didn't really look at me either; he had his face in the tests. He told me to please sit, that my food would get cold. Like anybody's mother.

I look down, and it was a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs, and like, orange juice, or something. And underneath, sticking out from the bottom of the plate was a crisp fucking hundred dollar bill."

"Holy shit!"

"Ya, it was _completely_ surreal, Brian. And I don't just mean the money. The whole scene! A big hot breakfast! Nice tablecloth and matching curtains and all that? I felt like I'd just been dropped here from Mars."

"What did you do?"

"I sat down and ate!"

"Did you talk to him?"

"Not a word. Too fucking embarrassed. He talked to me a bit, though. He just said he was so glad I was still there, and he hoped I would feel comfortable in his house, and that I could stay as long as I needed, and that I could have whatever I wanted in the fridge, stuff like that. He got up and he said if I decided to go downtown, there was a bus stop 2 blocks up, and he could give me a lift to it if I wanted, but if not, that he'd left me bus fare. I just said, y'know, okay, thanks. And he left."

"So here you had a hundred dollars, and he was leaving you bus fare as well?"

"Ya, see, he thought of everything. He knew I wouldn't have been able to break the bill with the bus driver, see, and I'd be stuck at the house all day as a result."

"Unbelievable."

"Yes."

"So, how weird was it being in his house by yourself?"

"Extremely. I didn't stay long. I put on my coat and and started up the street for the bus. I was dying to spend my money, boy."

"I bet. What did you buy?"

"I went straight to Marshall's Music Shop downtown, which was my favorite record store at the time. Very first thing I bought was The Animals album, which was their first one. I'd been obsessed with The House of the Rising Sun for months."

I'm laughing.

"I thought you said the British invasion ruined music!"

He smiles.

"Well okay, not all of it. Some of it I liked, I admit. The Animals were kickass."

"What else did you buy?"

"Some other records. I can't even remember which, some 45′s I think. And I roamed around and went into some other shops, I think I priced a case for my guitar, just spent a bit of time downtown, but I didn't buy anything else.

What I remember most though, was walking up to a restaurant counter, sitting down, and ordering lunch. A sandwich and a milkshake, or I think, a coke, can't remember. Because to me, that was like, wow! _That_ made me feel like I'd fucking arrived, or something. Because I had never once had money to do shit like that, not ever, and certainly we never ate out when I was growing up- we couldn't afford it. Eating out to me was what people did in the movies, and so to be able to do that myself was just, huge."

"How were you emotionally by this point? Did it all hit?"

"When I sat down to eat, I was no longer distracted, so, yes, that's when it hit. The sort of, enormity of the last 24 hours. I was sort of weighing my options, which when I weighed them, I mean, there was no contest. Yes, I could have gone back to living with 15 people in a big empty room, or maybe I could have hooked up with somebody from school, like a roommate situation, though I'd pretty much lost contact with people. I could have scrounged up a job. I'd had jobs, little tiny shitty ones like working at a car wash, that I kept getting fired from. The guy would rehire me because people kept quitting, and then when he had enough employees I'd be fired again. But I don't blame him. I was unreliable, and I had _such_ a motherfucking chip on my shoulder when it came to being told what to do. Man, you think I have a bad attitude now? You should have seen me then!"

We laugh.

"The thing was though, all I cared about was music. It was truly what kept me alive, what I absolutely clung to. I so wanted my job to be my _band_, but it just hadn't worked out.

So I thought, okay, those are the reasons to _not_ leave- because my options otherwise are so poor, now what would be the reasons to _stay_ ? Let's see: money- lots of it, a roof over my head that was a million times nicer than I'd ever seen in my life, free food, plenty of time to practice my music, and … I could always leave if I didn't like it. That last thing was what clinched it."

"What about the sex though?"

"Well, I figured, nothing is free in this world. If I have to swallow dick to earn my keep, that wasn't too much to ask, was it? I'd rather that, than the fucking carwash. I was very pragmatic about it."

"Ya."

"So, I took the bus back to the house, and I used my very own key to open the door, which was a trip in itself- that he trusted this kid with a key to his big fancy house. But anyway, I went inside and I put on the Animals record and I just blasted it. We were never allowed to play music in my house growing up, so this felt particularly amazing. And the first song on side one was House of the Rising Sun, and I couldn't get past it. I kept moving the needle back and playing it over and over and over, screaming along with it the whole way. Man, I wanted to be Eric fucking Burden. But the lyrics just kept hitting me. That very last line, "it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and god I know I'm one." It felt _so_ heavy, so prophetic, because I felt like I was like _in_ the fucking house of the rising sun ! I _knew_ I was on the edge of something, this whole deal with the guy. I _knew_ it was a door to something, like that it would absolutely be a major dividing line in my life of some sort, but what I didn't know was, would it be bad or good? Would it 'ruin' me? It was heavy, let me tell you."

* * *

><p>We get up to go inside. It's too windy on the beach. I start up a fire in the living room fireplace and we continue to talk, sitting on the couch, holding hands, as always.<p>

"So …?"

"So I'm caught up in the song, I'm singing along at the top of my lungs to the point where I think tears were streaming down my face, and of course … he walks in. I had completely lost track of time- it was like 5:30. I didn't hear him cuz the music was too loud. He had a pretty fancy stereo system. So I didn't see him at first. I think he watched me until the song finished, and when I went to move the needle again, I saw him. I think I leapt like 3 feet in the air.

He said he was sorry, he didn't mean to scare me, but he didn't want to interrupt. He said I had an amazing voice. He asked me about the song, stuff like that. Which was good, it got me relaxed and talking instead of cowering in the corner. We looked at the album cover together. It was nice. I was still nervous, but it was okay.

He said he'd bought steaks and was I okay with that for dinner? I said ya. Truth was, I was like 'steak'? I'd never had it before in my life. He probably grew up with them.

So we sat at the table and had this amazing rare prime rib, and baked potatoes and like, asparagus- another thing I'd never had before. I tried not to let on though."

We laugh.

"And he asked me about my day, what did I do, what did I buy. It was just normal talk. And then there was a pause, and he said again, that he was really glad I seemed to feel comfortable there and that he wanted me to feel welcome in his home. Nice, right? And then he said he wanted to ask me something, and I just sort of froze. I knew it was gonna be about last night. He said, how are you about what happened? And I was back to not being able to look at him.

And he finally put his fork down, and he turned to me and said, look Curt, if you're uncomfortable with it, I completely understand, especially since it was your first time and this is all new and strange to you … and I blurted out that I wasn't uncomfortable with it.

He said, you're not? I said no. He said are you sure, because I'd stiffened up the minute he'd brought up the subject, … and I didn't know how to respond. It was shyness, more than discomfort, that was all.

He said was there something you didn't like about it? He really wanted to know. He asked me to be honest with him.

And I looked him the eye and said it felt … strange and I'd been really nervous and that probably hadn't helped things, but I thought it went okay and I didn't hate it.

And he laughed, and he said he thought it had gone well too, he'd thought I'd been amazing. And then he said, after I left, were you upset or anything? And I said it just all felt really heavy to me, going through it, and it exhausted me, and I was a bit freaked.

And he said he was sorry about that.

Then he said, have you decided if you're going to stay ? And I said yes, I was. And he smiled and he said he was glad. And he said if I was gonna stay, there really had to be open lines of communication between us, he said that was extremely important. He was sort of relying on me to not shut down.

And I said I was cool with that and I agreed it was a good idea.

And anyway, we went on with dinner and talked about non-hot topics, like school and shit like that, and it was okay from there.

The steak was amazing by the way. He told me later that it was a celebratory steak, like the best, most expensive one the shop had, to honor our first time."

"Awww. That's so sweet."

He smiles.

"I know. The man was a total romantic."

I poke at the fire.

"So the second night, what on earth was that like?"

"The second night was a lot better, because I obviously knew what to expect and all that. After dinner he went into his office and did research and stuff for his class assignments, and I sat in the living room and watched tv and read this book I'd been reading.

Then I went upstairs afterwards and fiddled with my guitar on the bed, and later went to sleep. And at some point, the door opened."

"God, this is just so unbelievable."

"I know. It's funny too, because you don't picture a 37 year old man, a teacher no less, having this nightly need to get off, do you? Or at least, I didn't think that existed, when I was that age. Fuck, I could get off every single night of my life right now and I'm 25- I wonder what I'll be like in 12 years?"

I smile. "Probably the same. Me too. I mean, it's not like he was retirement age. 37 isn't _that_ old, especially if you're fit … and you have a young Curt Wild directly across the hall."

We laugh.

"Fuck off, Brian. The age difference was really a bonus later on when we began fucking. Because he took so much longer to come than I did. I would literally be on my 3rd or 4th one by the time he was having his first."

"Jesus christ. 4 to 1? What time frame are we talking here?"

"I don't know- 20 minutes."

"Ahhh, I remember those once-every-5-minutes days. I was stupid, I should have hooked up with an old guy too."

We laugh.

"So anyway, tell me about the 2nd night. I'm fascinated by this."

"Well, the door opened, and the light woke me up. At least this time I'd actually been asleep and not lying in bed terrified."

"Did you ever have any idea what time it was when he would walk in by the way?"

"It varied, I think. Remember, this was about spontaneity. I think that night it was maybe 1 or 2 in the morning. I don't know for sure."

"Wow, so you would have been dead to the world, right?"

"Ya. Which did sort of make it more exciting, because I didn't have time to panic ahead of time or whatever. It was like, okay wake up, now here's my cock. No, I'm exaggerating obviously."

"So …?"

"So he walked in, I woke up, and I think he asked me if this was okay for me. In the beginning he would check in with me all the time. He was so uncomfortable with the idea of my feeling forced, I think. Anyway, I said ya.

I slid myself down and dropped my head over the edge, and he moved the little support stool in place, and I squirted the throat numbing stuff, and I looked, and there was his cock again, raging and swollen. Wow. I was pissed off that it still looked huge to me. I'd been telling myself it had only been my imagination, because I'd been so scared, but it wasn't.

So he approached, and I remembered to open my mouth this time, and he reminded me of the hand signals and the yawn and all that, and he … went in. Slowly, it was always slow and careful- any other way with deeping and I think you're asking for trouble.

And as he moved in, I yawned and held it, and he pushed into that space again and I almost fucking gagged. The tip had hit the back wall- he pushed a little too far and it was suddenly like, oh no, oh fuck, here it comes, I am absolutely gonna gag, and I did a little, but I was focusing so hard and concentrating, that I was able to sort of stop it.

And he was all apologetic and stuff- I think he was embarrassed. I mean, how awkward that moment must have been … but anyway, somehow I relayed the message to him to just, y'know, go ahead and _do_ it … and he began moving. He didn't ask this time. I guess he knew I'd throw up a hand signal if there were any more issues. He pulled back a bit more than the first night, from what I recall, so the thrusts were longer, but not deeper, like. He was already in my throat so …

And I just remember focusing on the breathing, and keeping my teeth away, and all that, and y'know, some time later, it wasn't all that long, he came. It was a sign of how much he got off on deeping, that he would come that quick, y'know, since it would take him like 20 or 30 minutes when he was in your ass. Oral was definitely _it_ for him. Can't say I disagree with him there."

We share a smile.

"But anyway, I swallowed and again didn't really taste anything, it was almost like clearing your throat rather than swallowing, which was fine with me, I mean, I don't care who you are, who likes the taste of come? It's foul stuff."

"Okay, so that leads me to a question. You did this 7 nights a week, at least in the beginning, right?"

"Yes, a few times it was twice in a night."

"Jesus Christ! He wouldn't even let you sleep!"

He smiles. "He was madly in love with my mouth, what can I say?"

"Okay, but Curt, you were swallowing the whole time, right?"

"Yes indeed."

"Did it not make you, like, sick? I mean, did it bother you physically? Ingesting that much?"

"Um well, see, the good thing about doing it every night was that he never had a big load, it was maybe like a teaspoon or something, because it was being drained every day."

I wince. "Jesus, you have a foul mouth."

We laugh.

"So anyway, continue."

"Well, y'know, what can I say? It was the same story. It felt fucked up and it was a bit scary to have to watch your breathing and to be upside down and possessed like that, but it was all told, I don't know, maybe 4 or 5 minutes, and it was done. He pulled out, he thanked me and made sure I was okay, he said I'd done really well and it had been incredibly exciting for him, and then he left."

"Was this one of the 2 times nights?"

"No, that was a few nights later."

"Shit. Did he at least warn you about it at all?"

"He hinted to me about it that day. And the nice thing was, the next morning I come down to breakfast, and oila, there's not one, but TWO hundred dollar bills under my plate!"

"Fuck!"

"So I definitely didn't mind. Plus, I got hard with the 2nd one, and I pretty much did, from then on."

"Oh my, did he notice ?"

"Yes. He told me later how exciting that was, that it was like a dream come true for him that I would find it arousing."

"But did he … do anything?"

"Not for the first coupla weeks. I think he was desperately trying to keep his promise that he wouldn't touch me and that there would be no 'sex', per se. But it finally broke him down, the sight of my cock sticking straight up out of my boxers."

"Oh god, you're kidding!"

"No."

We laugh.

"So how did he, uh, broach the subject?"

"Well, on that night he finished his business, and instead of leaving like he always did, he walked around the side of the bed and he said could he ask me something. And I threw the sheet over me, I was so embarrassed, and I swung my legs around and sat on the side of the bed. I mean, the room was barely lit, so I figured he wouldn't have seen it.

And he just came right out with it and said, I'd like to know if you'd object to me returning the favor."

"Wow!"

"And I got all embarrassed and said no, thanks, I was fine, or something. Meanwhile my cock was pounding away under the sheet, boy!

And he crouched down in front of me, I'll never forget it, and he said are you absolutely sure? Because nothing would bring me more pleasure right now, than to bring _you_ pleasure."

"Shit!"

"Ya, and now, fuck, I mean, I _definitely_ wanted it, but … I hesitated. Because it was another threshold moment that I was scared to cross. And, then … this was one of the few times he didn't wait for my permission, he just knelt down, and reached for the sheet and pulled it slowly away, bit by bit, it was all in a pile in my lap, and, fuck … I didn't know what to do. I was _so_ hot for it, but I was _so_ fucking nervous. I remember my arms were by my side and I sort of leaned back a little and shut my eyes, and when he saw that, I mean, that was permission."

"Surrender."

"Ya, surrender. He pulled the last of the sheet back, and he leaned down, and it was like, … holy fucking jesus. I mean, I'd been blown before, right? And when you're 17, it takes you what, 20, 30 seconds when somebody's mouth is on you? He got me to last I think a full 5 minutes."

"Shit. How, by squeezing?"

"No, just by … slowly, I mean _really_ slowly licking the shaft, and very, very studious avoidance of the head. Believe me, it was like the most delicious slow torture I'd ever experienced, for sure. I did not know til that moment what the fuck a blowjob _was_. By the time he put his mouth over the tip I was pouring fucking sweat. I think if he hadn't been in the way I would have shot off clear across to the other end of the house. I lasted maybe 10 more seconds, and I just came like fucking bottle rockets.

The funniest thing of all was, he wasn't expecting it when it hit, so some of it went down the wrong pipe, and he ended up bent over, coughing, and laughing at the same time."

We both laugh.

"I was horrified of course. I was like, oh no, I totally ruined it, and I kept apologizing. I felt like such a dolt. I couldn't figure why he was laughing. And he said no, it's okay. And he looked at me and he had this huge grin, and he said it was fantastic, that it had been his fault, he should have been more prepared, and he didn't mind gagging on come one bit."

"Is there where you –?"

He smiles. "Yes. Like I said, he was my mentor, sexual, and otherwise. I'll never forget how happy he looked. He was like absolutely elated. And he said I had such a beautiful cock and I should never be embarrassed about becoming aroused. He said sex was good. He said it was natural and right and beautiful, it was just society that got it backwards and twisted it around and tried to say it was bad and wrong.

All incredibly lovely things, right? He was amazing. He had no idea how powerful those words were to me, because I'd developed such twisted ideas about sex because of my brother, and hearing that was like a fucking door opening up in my soul, or the weather breaking. It was positively monumental. Like, healing."

I squeeze his hand.

"So anyway, he got up, and he thanked me again, and he said goodnight. And in the morning, on the table … was five hundred dollars."

My hand flies to my mouth. I whisper. "God! I think he was really in love with you."

He nods quickly. "I think by that time he probably was, ya."


	15. Curt at 17 Part 2

**AUTHOR'S WARNING**: To this point, our story has had two characters – Brian and Curt, both aged 25, interacting with each other in the present tense. The next few chapters takes a sharp turn, containing essentially a long monologue by Curt, who is recounting a complicated consensual relationship (sexual and otherwise) between himself as a minor (age 17) and an adult male- a teacher at his school. Obviously sex with a minor is illegal and taboo and I do not condone it. Be warned that the next few chapters contain, among other things (and like most of the rest of this blog), sexual activity and language that is of a graphic nature. If the idea of this offends you, please skip ahead to the chapters beyond this section.

* * *

><p>"So, I'm trying to imagine what the conversation was like that morning."<p>

"He wasn't there. He'd had to leave early cuz he was flying out to a teacher's conference in Minnesota. He was just gonna be gone for that one night. But he made my breakfast and left it on the stove to keep it warm, and he wrote me this little note. It said something like, 'Dear Curt, thank you for last night. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have earned your trust. I hope you find I'm worthy of it. Please take care. I'll call you tonite.' Something like that.

"Sweet."

"Ya."

"So what did you do with yourself that whole day?"

"Well let me say that day was absolutely dominated by that blowjob."

We laugh.

"I mean, do you think I could get it out of my mind? I was absolutely mesmerized by it. I couldn't sleep after he left, first of all, then I woke up hard, then I beat off to it in the shower- twice, beat off to it after breakfast, I think by the time I left the house that day, I'd done it like 5 times."

We laugh.

"Poor baby."

"I know. It wouldn't let me go, it was all I could fucking think about. I'm actually amazed I even left the house that day, but I wanted to get to the bank to do my deposit- by then he had helped me open up an account. Fuck, I think I'd amassed something like 1800 bucks."

"Shit, you were rich!"

"Totally. It was insane. It was better than any fucking lottery. So anyway, I think I forced myself to do stuff downtown, maybe I ate out, I can't remember, and then I took the bus back home and just tried to distract myself by playing music and practicing my guitar, watching tv, the usual things."

"Did it feel odd being in that house by yourself that night?"

"Ya, it was very strange, but then he called me at like 9 o'clock."

"Oh, that was nice."

"Ya, it was the first time I ever had phone sex."

"WHHAT?"

"Well, it was his fault- he called right in the middle of me beating off again."

"But Curt …!"

"Shut up for a second. Listen. I'm lying there in my boxers about ready to shoot, picturing the fucking blowjob, and suddenly … RINNGGG! I think I jumped a fucking foot. There was a phone next to the bed that I'd never even noticed before. We didn't have phones in bedrooms where I grew up. Anyway, I answer it and it was him and he said wow, are you okay? You sound awful!"

We laugh.

"And he said did I wake you? Were you asleep? And I said no, I was in bed but I wasn't asleep, something like that.

And he asked me about my day and all that and he said are you sure everything is okay? You sound kind of tired or stressed, or something. I'm sure I said I was fine. Then he wants to know what I was doing when he called. So I think I just said, y'know, I was just lying here in bed. And he says something like, reading your book? And I said no. I clammed up, I was giving him one word answers cuz I was embarrassed, and I think that was how he knew.

So then he says, you're in bed? And I said ya. And he said, are you in your boxers?"

"He asked you what you were wearing?"

"Hey, it was relatively nonchalant. Every guy needs a visual, and I think by that time my ratty old boxers were a major turn on for him."

"So what did you say?"

"I think I just said ya. And he said Curt, can I ask you something? And I said ya. And he said, had you been touching yourself when I called?"

"Holy shit!"

"Ya, I was just completely floored. I was like, this fucking guy has ESP!"

We laugh.

"And I didn't say anything, I couldn't bring myself to answer him, so then he knew for sure. And he said that if I was, it was okay and I shouldn't be embarrassed because it was completely healthy and natural and good, like sex was. He just sort of put me at ease, or at least as much at ease as a guy ever is when his dick is in his hand.

And then he said he'd like to ask me something else, and I said okay, and, shit, I'll never forget it, he sort of whispered it to me, 'are you hard right now?'"

"Oh my."

"And I must have somehow mustered up the courage to admit I was, I don't remember what the fuck I said to him, I only remember what _he_ said, which was to ask me 'how hard'."

"Oh, shit."

"And I hemmed and hawed, and he said Curt, why don't you touch yourself and tell me how hard you are."

"And I was just totally flustered. Believe me, I'd never even _heard_ of phone sex before, let along done it, so it was a bit weird, I didn't really understand it, all I knew was I was _extremely_ fucking turned on, and then here he was telling me to touch myself, so of course, I did.

And I think he must've asked me again, how hard I was. He was pretty insistent. I mean, you can imagine what he was doing on his end of the line. And I told him I was really hard, because I was, and I remember when I said that, he said it was incredibly exciting for him to hear that, and that he wanted me to keep touching myself. Believe me, I didn't need to be told by that point.

And then he said more than anything he wished he could be there in the room with me, and that if he was, he'd hope that I would allow him to put his mouth on me again."

"Fuck!"

"And he asked me if I would want that, and I didn't have time to answer. I shot off for like the 12th fucking time that day."

We laugh.

"Poor Curt! I just feel so bad for you. You were so tormented."

"God, it was just … indescribable."

"So what on earth happened then?"

"Well of course, he knew I'd come, there was no mistaking that. And he said he was so pleased and asked me if I was okay and stuff like that. I don't remember what else. We got off fairly quickly after that."

"So he didn't come into the phone? Just you?"

"Nah; I wouldn't have known what the fuck to say to him anyway. I was still too shy and awkward."

"It's so funny, knowing you now, I can't imagine you were ever shy and awkward."

"Well I sure as fuck was. Particularly with him, in the beginning, because of the dynamics of the situation, him being so much older, being the one calling the shots. I was on his turf, and all."

"But it sounds like he tried to make you feel at home as much as he could."

"Oh, ya. He did, no question. He was what they used to call in the old days, a real gentleman. I certainly picked up manners from him, not that I have many of _those_ left."

We grin at eachother.

"For a _while_ I was polite as fuck, though."

I move close and kiss him quickly.

"Okay, so now I have to know what happened after he flew back."

"Oh, come on, Brian. This story is gonna take weeks to tell. Aren't you tired of it yet?"

"No. Are you kidding? This is one of the most amazing things I've ever heard in my life. And hearing about your sexual awakening is absolutely incredible, it gives me this whole other perspective on you, Ms. Bacall."

"Oh, man I'm gonna fucking smack you."

We kiss quickly. I sit back.

"Tell."

"What? Tell what?"

"Tell me what happened when he flew home, you dolt."

He sighs exaggerated.

"Okay, if you insist, Demon, my friend. I think you'll like this part, too. He–"

"–Oh, wait. Start with when you hung up the phone. Start there."

"Brian, do you literally expect me to tell you every second of the entire 6 months?"

I bat my eyelashes.

"If you can remember them all, yes."

He groans and rolls his eyes.

"_After_ I hung up the fucking _phone_, I'm sure I must have gone right to sleep. I was peaked-out. My balls must have been shriveled up by that time. How's that for ya?

The conference continued the next day until noon or something, and he was supposed to fly home after that and be done with it- have the rest of the day off cuz it was a Friday and school wasn't in session, but there was this thing that cropped up with the conference. A group of teachers who wanted to strike. It was a big deal; the very beginning of all of that upheaval in Detroit in the 60′s. They called an emergency meeting, so from the airport he had to go directly to the school. He wasn't one of the teachers who wanted to strike- he hated that shit, but they all had to remain at this school while this got ironed out as like a show of solidarity or whatever the fuck it was.

Anyway, he called me at maybe 4:30 all pissed off. He thought the teachers were being unreasonable and he was exhausted and just wanted to go but couldn't. And he called me again like 3 hours later and he said he was probably gonna be there all night and how frustrating that was because it was not at all the day he had planned for himself, especially after our phone call."

"Shit!"

"He said it was all he'd been able to think about for the last 24 hours and he said the more he thought about it, the worse it was getting. It was his way of telling me he was horny."

"Hmm, I see."

"Anyway, _then_ he fucking said, I can't stand it another second, I really need to see you, can you make your way down here? And I was like HUH? What are you fucking talking about? I can't go into the _school _! He said I'll send for a cab for you, when you get here, walk around back to the service entrance and wait for me, like it was all simple and practical. He didn't give me time to respond or protest or anything. Just before he hung up he said, wear your boxers !"

We burst out laughing.

"You can't be serious!"

"Of course I'm serious!"

"He wanted to fuck you inside the school!"

"Well I wasn't entirely sure, was I? That was part of the thing with him and me; on my end, there was always an element of confusion and nervousness and not knowing exactly what to expect, and I think it energized it that much more for me. It made it that much hotter, that he kept me guessing and off guard, that I had to keep pushing past my comfort zones and shit. I sound like a fucking shrink.

Anyway, so like in 5 minutes there's a cabbie outside tooting his horn and I'm running around the house throwing on my shoes and my jacket and I ran out & got inside before he left. I had never been _in_ a cab before, mind you, so I had no idea how it even worked, how you paid and all that. It turns out he had an account and it got charged to that.

So shit, on the way, I'm sweating and scared and freaked. We get to the school, and I walk around back trying to find the fucking service entrance. It's freezing cold out mind you, and pitch black, and I'm practically walking through snowbanks trying to find it. I don't know why he assumed I would know what it looked like, there was no sign or anything. And I find some door that I think must be the right one, and it turns out it wasn't. I'm outside like 5 minutes in the wind and it's colder than a witch's tit and I'm thinking, this is _nuts_, I shouldn't even fucking _be_ here; I'll probably fucking get arrested! I didn't even think about us potentially doing whatever. I was too fucking cold and freaked.

So finally I hear this squeaky door open like 50 ft away & I look over and he's standing there waving at me. I make my way there and the next thing I know I'm being pulled into some tiny broom closet with mops and and buckets and shit. He shuts the door and shoves me up against it and he kisses me for the very first time."

"Wow."

"I mean, mind you, it was more like being mauled by a starving man."

"Which he was not."

He laughs. "No, he was not. We're talking a day and a half without!"

I smile. "That's the impact you have on people, Curt."

"Fuck off. I mean, how funny was it that after what was maybe 5 weeks, we hadn't even kissed ?"

"He who professed such love for your mouth!"

"Ya! We started on the opposite end with the most extreme stuff, then worked our way back. Like the exact reverse of what people do. I actually really liked that."

"Ya, that's fascinating. I hadn't thought of that."

"So, we're standing in this tiny stuffy closet and I'm absolutely terrified of being caught. I mean every teacher in the school and union reps and the whole bit, all these important _adults_ are right there in the building having this serious day long negotiation pow wow thing and we're gonna fuck in the closet 10 feet away? It certainly had that magical danger element to it.

And meanwhile he was just like super excited; long, deep, intense, impatient kisses, nothing half assed; it was pretty incredible. I'd certainly never been kissed like that before, and he'd practically ripped the button off my pants. He'd reached in and was doing this sort of circular motion with his palm, just around & around, right over the boxers; didn't even try to go underneath them."

"Describe it …?"

"It's hard to. It was like he was literally stirring me up down there; it was a bit out of control. His palm was pushing my sac up into my dick, and pushing the whole thing up into my stomach and around to my thigh, sort of in a circle. A bit on the rough side, but it was also fucking revving me up something fucking fierce."

"God."

"I'd just never felt anything like that before. You know the term 'beating off', but in actuality you're pretty gentle with yourself. This was closer to being beaten off than I'd ever been. It doesn't sound like it would be enjoyable, but in the heat, and like, fury and fear of the moment, the terror of being caught, it was just like, phew, something else. It felt weird and dirty and amazing."

"So did you come ?"

"Well, the circular palm thing had done it's trick and I'm panting and sweating, and he's kissing me and telling me how much he wants my cock and I'm right on the edge after maybe a minute of this, and then as fate would have it, right _exactly_ at that point this fucking stampede of people start walking down the main hallway, right on the other side of the door !"

"Oh no!"

"And he chose _that_ exact moment to drop to his knees and pull open the flap on my boxers and suck me into his mouth and … fuck, I was _so_ done for! They're all filing right behind the door, hundreds of them talking away about mundane shit, completely oblivious that one of their colleagues is at that very moment in the broom closet sucking off a student, and meanwhile, he doesn't let up. He's gonna _make_ me come while they walk by, and I started to and he threw his hand up over my mouth to muffle me cuz I was _shoutin_, boy."

"Okay, the hand over the mouth. Maybe you'd better stop for now. This is making me rock hard."

"Me too!"

We laugh.

"Let's take a G-rated break. Let's go read fucking children's books or something."

"What about a dip in the jacuzzi?"

He looks at me sideways. "Ya, _that'll_ help matters."

"Come on, I promise we'll stay on opposite sides of the pool, and I won't even make you wear boxers."

He finally agrees and we climb in separately. He insists on going in naked, and I shield my eyes until he's immersed. We laugh and immediately part to resume talking from either end.

"So you didn't get caught, I take it."

"I thought we were gonna talk about non-sexual stuff?"

"Sorry. I can't stay away from your story for very long."

He sighs exaggerated.

"Alright. No, we didn't get caught."

"Was there just this insane, risk taking side to him? He was literally risking everything there."

"For a blow job. Romantic!"

I laugh.

"I'm serious, Brian. There was absolutely romance in what he did that day- by which I mean the very notion of being willing to throw it all away … for love, or lust, or just for something dangerous & exciting. Just the risk he took in approaching me and having me move in with him to begin with- it was the same thing. I was certainly a huge potential walking time bomb for him."

"So why do you think he did it? Took such risks, I mean."

"I think he was … I don't know, it was complicated. I think a lot of it was sheer loneliness. I think there was this side to him where his needs had gone unmet for so long and he saw himself getting older and things weren't changing and it scared him. Maybe it was rebellion. He'd grown up in this conservative environment and he'd been the dutiful son getting straight A's and doing everything dad wanted. And I think it felt hollow to him, like, false."

"So, back to the closet. What became of the two of you ?"

"Okay, let me think. His hand over my mouth. Okay, I absolutely remember fiddling with his belt and putting my hands on his zipper and he stopped me. I was so disappointed. He was panting still, excited, but he said there wasn't time, and I should probably go."

"Too bad. Letdown."

"Ya, shit, I was crushed. Especially given this was our first mutual sexual encounter, ie it was my first time really wanting to do him myself, rather than being done to a la the midnite visitations."

"So did you just leave, then?"

"Ya. We snuck out and he called the cab and it took me home."

"Shit, what a bizarre existence you were living."

"You're not kidding. And I get home and I'm like, did any of that really happen? Totally surreal. I remember plopping down dead on the couch falling asleep, still with my shoes and coat on, and I was dead to the world and tranquil and fine and peaceful for like an hour or two, and then the fucking phone rings and I fly off the couch and I'm running around trying to find it, and I get it on like the 4th ring and it's him, and he says: 'I'll be home in 30 minutes. I want you hard when I walk in the door.'"

"Gulp!"

"Seriously!"

We laugh.

"Why do I feel bad for you here? You were lust-ridden teenage boy like all teenage boys, you could take it, and yet …"

"And yet _he_ was like the teenage boy tormenting _me _!"

We laugh again.

"I mean really! You're that age and then you're suddenly given a message which tells you that sex is definitely coming your way … in a half hour? Talk about a mind fuck!"

"What did you do?"

"Well I hang up the phone, and I'm shaking."

"With excitement? With nerves?"

"Jesus Christ, both. Again, being that age, I don't think anticipation is something you associate with sex or arousal. It's all instant in your mind. Waiting doesn't play into it."

"Ya, that's totally true. So you …"

"Oh, well I beat off, of course."

"Of course."

"That was the easy part- I mean 2 minutes and you're there."

I grin. "Mmm, yummy."

"Shut up, perv. The hard part was calming my fucking nerves. Y'know, what do I do? Where do I go in the house? Should I stay where I am? Should I go up to my room? Should I strip naked? I was all flustered, as you can imagine, aside from the obvious reasons for being flustered. So I finally decided just to stay where I was on the couch. I have no idea why. The bedroom just felt like old news and I thought doing it on the couch would be pretty exciting. That seemed really wild to me."

"Clothing?"

"Oh, I decided just to wear what I was wearing. I didn't know how he would want me and I was too embarrassed to strip naked or down to just my boxers."

"You didn't wear your coat though?"

"No; coat, shoes, socks, I kicked off. Then it's like alright, unbutton, beat off, and sit here with the fucking blood pounding, watching the second hand on the clock."

"Poor Curt! Did it seem like hours?"

"No! Are you kidding? It went by _too_ fucking fast! I think he broke speeding records coming home. The kitchen door flies open and I can hear him dropping his coat & briefcase, and he walks directly into the living room. He looks at me, and I remember he just has this _incredible_ look of _want_ in his eyes, just total like, unabashed raging lust, looking me over. I'll never forget it. I definitely know how women feel when they say men undress them with their eyes.

I mean, the poor bastard. That dull all day conference, then the next long day at the school, like 10 hours, and the whole entire time he's horned out of his mind and distracted and frustrated, and it all builds and builds up to this moment; a boy in his living room, sitting with his pants open, waiting. Phew!"

"Fuck!"

"So he drops in front of me, and I'm thinking okay, yay, here comes another blow job, but he just looks down at my cock, and he touches it, just a soft brush with his hand, and he looks at me and he says 'good boy'."

"Oh my."

"And he stands up and reaches his hand out to me, and I take it. And he leads me upstairs, into his fucking room."

"Wow, you'd never been in there before, had you?"

"No. I'd only seen it from the hallway and even then, I was too, I don't know, intimidated to go in, even during the day when he was at work. And then suddenly we're in there and it's this huge room with a big double bed and all. Fancy iron headboard. And he stands in front of me and and he starts unbuttoning my shirt while he's looking in my eyes. Wow. Heavy stuff for me at that time- heavy stuff even _now_. And see, here's another thing we do in reverse: every encounter we'd had up to this point I'd already been pretty near naked.

So he's pulling my shirt up out of my pants and going up the buttons, and then throwing it on the floor and dragging my undershirt up over my head and you know …. jesus. There's times in your life when you feel more naked than others, even if you aren't, and when I was standing there with no shirt in the middle of his bedroom at night, and he's running his hands over my chest, it was … _phew_, like my skin was literally tingling.

And I remember he told me how soft and smooth my skin was, and what a beautiful body I had, and stuff like that. And then he asked me if it was alright if he removed my pants."

I laugh. "Strange!"

"I think what it was Brian, was that he was trying to bring me into the process by making me talk, so it didn't all feel so one-sided."

"Ahh, good. And you said yes, of course. Were you embarrassed as fuck?"

"I don't know that I could even think straight at this point, enough to _be_ embarrassed or whatever. All I knew was, my dick was pounding away and this guy was taking his time stripping me and …"

He stops to take a deep breath.

"Are you okay?"

"Ya, this is just really getting to me. Brian, how on earth am I gonna go the week without masturbating?"

"Well, I'm not going the week without it. I don't see why you should."

He looks at me.

"Seriously. It's a lovely thought, but–"

"But I still wanna try it, though. It's important to me."

"I know, Curt. But … what will you do?"

He begins climbing out of the water. "I'll be right back. I'm gonna try the infamous cold shower. Or maybe a quick swim."

I call after him. "Take a shower. You can swim later."

While he's gone I reach for myself. It seems like a waste and a shame. I don't want be masturbating on my own, away from him, but that's what the situation has called for.

He returns, cock limp, looking a bit stressed.

"Oh my beautiful boy."

"Hey, at least I know it works … you just need to make the water fucking _cold_ enough."

"I'm sorry. And I've been pushing you on this story. Let's talk about something else."

"Are you kidding? I can't leave you at that cliffhanger! I'll be alright now. My dick will be cowering for a long while yet."

I frown, feeling terrible.

"Okay, where was I?"

"Are you sure, Curt?"

"Yes, where was I?

"Umm, he asked you about your trousers."

"Oh fuck, ya. Jesus, can you believe that? And he unbuttoned them and he pulled them down, around my cock which was sticking through the hole."

"Boxers too?"

"No, he left those."

We laugh. "Wow, there is so no question that they were _it _for him!"

"Ya, it was his bra and see-through panties."

We laugh further.

"What about him? Didn't he undress?"

"Not for the first little bit, no. I remember him loosening his tie, that was about it. And he held my hand and walked backwards and sat at the foot of the bed, and then he put my hand down onto my cock and he asked me to touch myself like I had on the phone."

I squeel. "Oh no!"

"And I think my face turned purple. That was just, god, to ask a kid to beat off in front of you?"

"No shit!"

"And he could see I was embarrassed and I think that added to it for him. But that is absolutely like the classic fantasy-scenario for a lot of guys- doing someone who is shy about it, young and insecure, much less experienced, and having to coax them along. Pretty powerful stuff.

Plus, I need to say I think it was exciting to him that he knew I was gonna do it _despite_ not wanting to, despite my embarrassment, in order to please him. There was no getting around that it had those dominant/submissive overtones, however subtle."

"See this is amazing to me too, because I see you as a total top."

He grins. "I see me as that way too. I think that's my true nature, but again, given the dynamics that existed between he and I- the age difference, his level of experience and maturity vs mine, I was _going_ to be the bottom. I only discovered the top side of myself later on."

"Thankfully."

We look at each other; a repeat of the look we exchanged earlier in the bedroom, over his beard. He blurts suddenly.

"Okay! Moving right along. He asked me to beat off in front of him, and I did, very reluctantly."

"Wow, so he just sat there and watched you?"

"Ya, it was pretty mortifying, to the point where I couldn't make myself come."

"Is that what he wanted?"

"Oh ya. He told me he wanted to see what he'd missed over the phone. But I had this mental block, from being watched, I guess."

"So …?"

"So he stopped me, and he told me to stay where I was, and then he fucking laid himself back on the bed and pushed his head over the edge."

"NO!"

"Yes. And I'm standing there in shock, stock still, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him. And he reached out and slid down the fucking boxers. I hesitated, because I wasn't even exactly sure how to do this, even though it had been done to me, and he just pulled me towards his mouth. Oh, it was heavy."

"Definitely!"

"Ya, so I went in, of course, and it was the strangest feeling. I wasn't all that gifted in the length department, I'm all girth, but he just easily took the whole thing. He had an easier time with it that I did with him, let's just say."

"What did that feel like to you?"

"Like fucking nirvana."

We laugh.

"You know, just that visual, looking down and seeing your cock disappear, your _entire _cock, way past somebody's lips, and knowing it's going that deep? And then thrusting, it's this small tight space and it feels weird and amazing, and his tongue is going the whole time. It was just crazy exciting. You could truly lose your fucking mind."

"So how long would you estimate?"

"Fucking 12 seconds? I don't know. Not long."

"And he's lying there in his suit and tie?"

He laughs. "Ya! A total traveling-salesmen/businessman's fantasy, or what?"

"I'm surprised you didn't develop a suit fetish!"

"Nope, not a chance. Always hated suits." He looks down at his palms. "Shit, let's get out of the water already. I'm all wrinkly."

We exit, and towel off on the deck. He dresses, and we meet at the table to gobble down spicy Spanish potato chips and beer.

"Alright. What next?"

"Okay, well now, from what I recall, he sat upright and pulled me over to him and we kissed pretty fierce."

"Where are you? I'm trying to picture it."

"I'm standing at the side of the bed. He's sitting up, legs over the side, feet on the floor."

"Nice, okay. And you're kissing."

"Yes. Post-peak kiss. Deep enough that I can sorta taste what I taste like, if you get my drift."

"Mmm hmm." I grin, "I know that taste. Luscious."

"Hardly. But anyway, we're getting carried away with this kiss and I'm pretty high on what just happened and I'm groping at him- I mean I _really_ want his cock at this point. It's been fed to me but I need to _see_ it and fucking touch it and experience it, finally- have it in my hands. I'm super-agitated, fumbling with his zipper and I somehow manage to get it down while we're mauling each other and out pops his cock, I swear to god, like it was fucking spring loaded. So now, what is a boy to do? It's like total Pavlov's dogs- I instantly dropped to my knees and … mind you, I'd only ever seen it upside down."

"That's right!"

"And now I've got it, this big, fat, beautiful bulbous thing and I'm just in love. I just wanna lick it and stroke it for the rest of my whole goddam life. It's all I can see. I pop the tip in my mouth and it's _so_ fat and round and swollen and I'm bobbing my head up and down and it's just like fucking heaven."

"You sure you don't have film of this somewhere?"

"Shut up. So I'm totally getting hard again, it's all fine and beautiful, and then the bastard suddenly pulls me straight up, to stand. I'm sure I had this completely crestfallen, sorrowful look on my face, like, try and pull a dog away from his bowl after he hasn't eaten for 2 weeks. I just wanted to cry. And he goes to kiss me standing up, but I'm so frustrated, I'm grabbing at his dick. It's right there and I want at it so bad.

So we're back to the dynamics. I can have a nibble, but he's gonna control the pace, and in his view we're going too fast. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me directly around in place so now I'm facing the bed. My head is so foggy I don't even realize it at first. And he steps away and he's undressing behind me."

"Lordy."

"And he comes back and wraps his arms around me from behind and runs his hands all over, slow and sweet, and he says the most amazing shit into my ear; like, how beautiful I am, and how excited he is by me, and how he can't wait to make love to me. All this romantic stuff, and all of it lost on me: I can only feel that big dick up against my back. Fuck, I was so dick-focused."

"Nothing like you are now."

"Oh no."

We laugh.

"And we're kissing sideways, and he's telling me right into my mouth how much he wants me, how he's wanted me all along, that the wait has felt like years, stuff like that, and I see his hand reach into the nighttable drawer for what turns out to be lube."

"Mmm."

"And he presses against my back and leans me forward over the bed so I'm on outstretched arms, and he has one hand on my back and his other runs down my butt cheek, just like a slow caress, and then I feel this cool stuff, and he opens me up with one finger."

"Oh! How lovely. What was that like?"

"Just … I don't know. Gentle, like."

"How were you feeling?"

"Up to that point hyper-excited, panting, the whole bit, but he'd slowed me right down and I was more calm. It was like, what was gonna happen was inevitable and I could sorta relax into it."

"Lovely. And another reverse, in a way. When his entry is pending, you're calmer."

"Ya, shit, I hadn't thought of that. Totally right. Like maybe a calm before the storm type thing."

"So then?"

"I remember he kissed my shoulder and I felt a second finger go in, and he's asking me if I'm alright, is this okay for me, y'know, really sweet."

"Yes."

"The man was nothing if not attentive. And then he bends his fingers, like just slightly, and starts moving them slowly back and forth rubbing this certain inner spot and I instantly feel like this intense surge of pleasure, and it's just fantastic and I'm moaning and squirming and he kisses me on the ear and tells me how exciting and beautiful it is that I'm so responsive. And I said what is that, what are you doing? And he starts talking anatomy."

"No!"

"Ya but I swear to god it was hot. He did it in a way that wasn't lecture-y. He kept rubbing and he said _this_ is a gland which is the root and seat of male arousal, because the cock is anchored here and there's a huge bundle of nerves right behind it. Do you see what I mean?"

"Ya, I guess I do. I never even knew that."

"Me either. He said that men have been known to come just from it being rubbed by a finger, but that the head of a cock can rub right into it too."

"Oh boy."

"And after a minute he leans closer and pushes me down on the bed so now I'm on my forearms. He kisses the back of my neck and he's got one arm wrapped around my chest and one holding him up, and I feel him shift and push into me and … holy christ. This huge breath just bursts out of me, like somebody stepped on my lungs, and I'm back to panting. And he's panting. He's all gooey, but that head is so big and round, there's so much internal pressure, like camel through the eye of a needle time. He stops _just_ inside and asks me if I'm okay and I couldn't speak for a minute. I remember him running his hand slowly up and down my chest, just this beautiful soft sweeping caress, and then moving it lower down, by my hip, and he's waiting for me to respond. And I finally tell him I'm okay."

"Emotionally?"

"Well that's such an overwhelming moment, isn't it? Emotionally and otherwise. Let alone for a young kid. You know, this is the thing with straight guys- they never experience that incredible feeling of, what is it? _Vulnerability_ that accompanies penetration, where you're prone, you're face down on a bed and you hand yourself over to someone, and you're sorta defenseless, y'know? You're dependent in a way. And I honestly think they're lesser for it. The whole world is off balance because of shit like that."

"Curt, that's a beautiful sentiment, but I hardly think straights would agree that the problem with the world is a lack of butt-fucking!"

"Brian, I'm semi-serious here. All the bullshit macho posturing in the world; the shit those two assholes wanted to pull on us earlier today. And why? Because it's threatening to them, that vulnerability. They're terrified of it, that feeling of peace when you open yourself up to somebody and yield yourself and allow yourself to drown in it."

My heart melts.

"If you came over here I'd kiss you right now."

He smiles.

"Then I'd better stay where I am."

"Curt, this is such a beautiful story, it's blowing my mind. It's scorching hot, but it's just gorgeous, too. I can totally see you and feel for you in that moment."

"Ya, it was very very intense. And you gotta realize, all of the sex I'd had to this point was teen-boy stuff. Groping somebody behind a building and it's over in 2 minutes- your entire focus is on doing whatever it takes to get off the absolute fastest. Not that that's necessarily all that bad, but the thing was, for me there was zero transition time. I went from that, straight into this guy telling me about my body and moving slow. And introducing the mental, where before it had all been physical."

"'The brain is the most important sex organ'."

"That's exactly what he used to say! He said the body was just an accessory."

We laugh.

"Okay, so speaking of the body. Go on …"

"Okay, well … I remember he began this really slow, careful forward movement, bit by bit, stopping in between, cuz y'know I'm so fucking tight and it hurts and it's taking me a while to adjust. He was so sweet about it and he kept whispering all this stuff to me, how amazing I was and how he'd never wanted anyone more, and he was gonna take his time and savor my body."

"Fuck, this is so fucking amazing. How could you stand it?"

"I have no idea." He laughs. "I have no idea how I survived any of it! I just remember clinging to the blanket and holding my breath.

Once he was deep he pulled back nearly all the way and started over again, if you can imagine. It was extremely slow, right up to the hilt again, and then when he retreated again it was just a tiny bit faster, and when he went in it was a smidgen faster than that, and it very slowly built up in speed, but then he would stop to rub himself into that gland and just torture me."

"Oh god. Yes, torture!"

"That big fat head rubbing back and forth and I'm gasping and drooling. I can't fucking see! And finally he let go and started thrusting. Not hard, just this moderate, even pace. Super hot. Jesus, it felt good. And hooray -we're _finally_ fucking!"

We laugh.

"And at some point he reached around and my cock is rock solid of course, and he started this slow stroking, a nice firm grip, and fuck me if I could stand it for more than a minute, not with that big cock in my ass. No siree! I remember he whispered right into my ear, 'I'm gonna make you come, I'm gonna make you come all night.'"

"Jesus!"

"And that was it- I lost it. I just shook, and this orgasm ripped through me that, you have to understand, was like a hundredfold over anything I'd ever experienced, and my whole body goes limp like a fucking rag doll. I'm like cross eyed, gasping, dripping sweat, and just as I'm beginning to be able to comprehend the magnitude of the orgasm, he tells me to get on the bed."

"Huh? I thought you were already on the bed."

"We were standing at the side of it leaning forward over it. Now he wants me to crawl up onto the mattress."

"Oh! Splendid! 'Crawl' being the operative word, I suppose? It sounds like you had zero strength left."

"None. He pulls out and I drag myself up there somehow and I'm just desperate to flop over and go straight to sleep, but he follows right behind and he pulls my hips back so I'm on all fours and then he tells me to grab hold of the headboard."

"Oh my."

"Ya, why didn't he just say, 'here it fucking comes, boy!'"

We burst out laughing.

"And _that's_ when young Curt got the pummeling of his life," he looks at me and grins, "to that point anyway."

I smile with him.

"He hangs onto my hips and there's y'know, that re-entry first off, and he feels huge all over again, massive, and then he let me have it. No more slow shit. He just went all out and I was fucking glad for that headboard, boy. I'm astonished it didn't give me blisters. I remember thinking 'this is what being 'banged' is'."

We laugh.

"You know, I felt like I was being split right in two, right down the middle. It was just these relentless, superdeep, powerful thrusts and you have to somehow figure out a way to not be forced through the fucking wall. Needless to say, I got hard again almost immediately."

More laughter.

"But he was just," he sighs, "… fuck. He didn't let up, and this went on mind you for literally another, like, 10 minutes."

"Holy mother!"

"I mean, he'd alter the rhythm and come at me different ways, different angles and stuff, and he was gasping in my neck the whole time, biting my ear and talking to me and it was some pretty gorgeous stuff."

"Like?"

"I think he said he loved that I could take him so deep and how he was gonna fuck me like this all night, every night, stuff along those lines. It about ripped my head off."

I whistle. "Indeed. Can I take a break now to masturbate, please?"

He looks at me.

"Seriously? What about a cold shower?"

"I'm kidding. I'll take my shower later. Go on, please."

"Well, just about the talk, I was thinking, even if he didn't talk to me, the _sounds_ in the room were like _so_ amazing! The sound of two people going at it is always such an enormous turn-on, and we were _loud_, boy. Loud. Serious grunting and gasping and I'm sure I was pretty much squealing, as well."

I smile. "My poor lovely boy."

"Yes, poor me, taking it up the ass like a trooper."

We laugh.

"So at some point well into this he puts his hand on me and begins jerking, and even though it was slow, I mean, really, I just could not take it. Same deal, a minute, maybe, and I'm shuddering and shaking and my mind goes blank; all I know is, I'm coming. I have no idea how I kept myself upright after that because he didn't even fucking _pause_, he just pummeled me all the way through it."

He grins.

"It was cruel of him."

"Oh yes, terrible."

"So now, a few minutes later, his breathing changes and he fucking sped _up_ and then just fucking crash landed and came with just like this big deep splash. I could feel it."

"Wow. Amazing."

"And we were both just gasping like crazy people. We needed fucking oxygen pumped into that room. And I'll never forget it: he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me down with him, sideways onto the mattress. He was still in me, and we laid there spoon style, catching our breath."

"How lovely!" I swoon.

"Well I'm sure we didn't smell lovely cuz we were sweat soaked, head to toe, but I don't remember noticing. He kept kissing my neck and my ear and stuff, and caressing me.

The thing was, Brian, I had this flood of totally unexpected emotions. I mean, I'd never been made love to, really ever, first of all, let alone absolutely cradled in the person's arms afterwards. That was _so_ heavy, I can't tell you, super powerful. It was … I felt loved, at that moment. That's what it was."

He looks off, eyes adrift.

I approach and caress his face. He looks wistful.

"It's alright, my boy."

He doesn't speak for a long while.

"I know. See, I've forgotten that I remember so much of this. The _feeling_ of it. Like, it's all still there and fresh. I didn't expect it; it's kind of eerie."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm just remembering … it was that confusion. I was scared and confused by these feelings. And plus I was so freaking over the top exhausted, just physically and mentally _spent_, that it was like my brain had turned to fudge."

I kiss his hand. "We don't have to keep talking about it, Curt. I've taken this too far."

"No, it's okay. I wanna finish the story. I've never told it to anyone else." He pauses, still looking off, then looks back at me. "Let's take a break, and we'll come back to it."

* * *

><p>He swims. I fix us a light dinner. It's 5pm and we've spent the day talking.<p>

* * *

><p>"Ask me about it."<p>

"Um, well, … where were you again?"

"In bed, just after."

"Well, did you two speak?"

"Not at first, that I recall. We laid there a long while and I was trying to sleep but my mind was just _going_. He was still inside me and holding me, and I didn't wanna move. I didn't want it to be over. I was so fucking spacey, drifting in and out. That's the last I remember, except that we did it at some point again that night."

"God."

"I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, it was immediate. Face to face. He went down on me and I came and he pushed my knees up and we fucked slowly and I came again. Very intense."

"Wow wee. I think I've lost count of your orgasms. Does that make 5?"

He grins. "Umm … ya, I guess it does."

"Just from the time he got home, not including the broom closet?"

"Yep!"

We laugh.

"Bloody hell, I mean I know you were young, but still, you must have been just a tad … pooped."

"Ya, we both were, absolutely. But now mind you, it didn't stop us from fucking again in the morning, when we finally woke up for the day."

"Jesus Christ! Okay, how, and where?"

"You didn't ask how many."

"More than once? Well, wait, answer the first questions, first."

"I'll answer them all: In bed again, and then another round which began in the shower, and ended over the bathroom sink."

"On the stairs, on your way down to breakfast?"

"No, but I did suck him off under the kitchen table."

"Stop it!"

We laugh.

I squint. "But Curt, if he was taking 30 minutes to come each time, that means you must have spent half the day fucking!"

"No, just … several hours." He grins wickedly. "But see, under the table, I was very, very enthusiastic, so that one only took like 3 minutes."

"Little bastard!"

He shrugs.

"Y'know, pancakes and come."

Yet more laughter.

"I told him I wanted to do that every morning while he graded papers."

We hoot.

"Why do I think there would be a lot of students suddenly getting straight A's."

We giggle like kids.

"Okay, there's lots of other stuff I wanna ask you about, but before I move on to that, you have to tell me about the shower sex, seeing as I'm so fond of that."

We share a smile.

"Well it was, y'know, we got up and we were both pretty disgusting, sticky, sweaty, etc., so it made perfect sense to pop into the shower. It's just that I don't know that we did any actual bathing. I only remember being pushed into the tile and getting fucked really damned hard."

"Oh, nice. Did you come?"

"Oh yes. His cock and my ass were like, definitely speaking the same language."

We laugh.

"What about him?"

"Well at some point after that, he said he wanted us to finish over the sink. This to me was like, why? I didn't understand it. It was nice and warm and comfy where we were, but I wasn't about to argue with him. I stepped out and I just instinctively reached for a towel and he turned me bodily away from it and pushed me part way down over the sink, dripping wet, both of us. And then I look up, and there's this huge wall-sized mirror, and there we are in the middle of it."

"_Oh_ my. Mirrors are such nice things."

"Well see, like everything else, this was brand new to me, and not something I'd ever even pondered or heard of."

"Did you watch?"

"Ya, it was irresistible, to for the first time be able to see yourself, and see the person behind you, fucking you? Fascinating! He grabbed my hips and did his re-entry, and I remember seeing myself grimace- that was definitely strange. And then the look on _his_ face was just, phew, pure fucking bliss. And then he started moving, and watching me, and we watched each other, and that was _so_ fucking hot in itself. I got hard again pretty quick."

"Boy, you never took long, did you?"

"Especially with that big dick in my ass, no. But even without …, it's both the beauty and the curse of being 17."

"I see the beauty, I don't see much curse."

"Well, I feel like I have enough trouble as it is keeping my dick in check. I don't need it spouting off on me every 12 seconds."

"Ya, I guess I have to agree with you there. So … go on, sir."

"Well, I remember he was pounding away, and I was bouncing back against him, and he pulled me somewhat upright and held me there with an arm across my chest, and, I didn't know what's going on. I mean, he's still fucking me, only not as deep, since I wasn't bent over as much, so I'm a bit disappointed because by this time young Curt had developed a taste for _deep_."

"Oh, god. I may need that shower sooner than I thought."

We laugh.

"So then as I watch in the mirror, he's grabbed my cock and he's pulling on it, slow again. So now I'm both _feeling_ this fantastic sensation, and _seeing_ it, _and _seeing _him_ as he watches his hand moving, and as he watches my face and as he grunts in my ear and kisses and bites it, and he's so obviously getting close to coming because his lids are drooping and it's so fucking sexy to see that, and then he's whispering, asking me over and over if I wanna come–"

–Mother!"

"It just upped the ante so quickly, the fucking mirror thing, that I wasn't prepared for it, and maybe y'know, 10 seconds later I shot off, and the thing was, it went all over the mirror."

"Oh my. Oh my. That is bloody hot."

"Ya, but I didn't realize that. I was mortified thinking he'd be angry because it was this big spray and it sort of got everywhere, and he stopped dead and looked at it and looked at me, and I'm thinking, oh my god, he's disgusted and pissed off, y'know, seriously, the entire house was so _neat_ all the time!"

I laugh.

"He's gonna kick me out now! And he turns his mouth into my ear and practically wrapped his lips around it and licked it and _breathed_ into it saying what a filthy, badly behaved boy I was for coming all over his nice clean mirror."

"Woa!"

"I mean, talk about a man and his need for visuals, I'd just provided him with one helluva visual! And he kept eating my ear and whispering stuff like, 'look at the mess your cock made' over and over, and it was totally riling him up, and he finally pushed me back down and went into like the fiercest pummeling I think I'd had so far, which was saying a lot.

And of course, because of the beautiful mirror, I get to watch! I was blown away, seeing him come under the bright lights and all that. I remember the sight of it: His eyes shut and his whole face changed and his mouth opened up and his lips were wet and he just cried out this gorgeous fucking sound and it was just … staggeringly hot, staggeringly beautiful to me."

* * *

><p>We sit out on the lounge chairs, sipping wine under the umbrella.<p>

"So, you had an awful damn lot of sex–"

"–Great sex"

"Great sex, but I haven't gotten enough of the sense of where you both were emotionally, where you each saw yourselves inside all of this, what you were to each other, stuff like that."

"Well that's all … complicated. The sex is the easy part."

He sighs.

"What it came down to was, I started out as a houseboy, to service him, and I was paid for my services, and given room and board. A live-in prostitute, I guess, but I still don't know what the fuck to call it; even with time, it's impossible for me to be objective. With the introduction of the real sex, though, things changed."

"How?"

"Well, for one, starting from that night, I slept in his bed full time. And we went on for weeks, having, y'know, serious, adult sex- I don't think it was ever less than twice a night, and more on the weekends. We were very, very focused on each other in that way; we couldn't stay away from each other. And then pretty soon that began to include time out of bed, whereas in the beginning we didn't really connect all that much. We started talking a lot, about everything- it was like there was no topic that was taboo, which was so refreshing and freeing for me, I can't tell you. And he began bringing me to museums and shit. We went to Ann Arbor a bunch of times, stayed the whole weekend. He loved that place- it was like this little bohemian arty town and we would see these weird art-house movies downtown, foreign films, stuff like that, and hold hands in the theater."

"You began behaving like a couple."

"Ya, it was no longer a business arrangement, but the fucking thing was, he was still paying me."

"What?"

"Ya, but it wasn't so blatant. He'd leave it in an envelope on my dresser, stuff like that."

"That is so odd! How did that, I mean, what did you think–"

"I didn't like it. I asked him to stop, and he refused."

"But why?"

"He said other than the very beginning, that he'd done it because he cared about me and because it gave him enormous pleasure and that he had no one to spend it on. That's when he told me about his family marrying him off to some rich diva and all that. But we ended up having an enormous fight that got very heated. I told him that paying me was disrespecting me, that it put me into this category that I was no longer comfortable being in.

Jesus, we had a _huge_ fucking fight. He was livid. He said it was insulting to him that I didn't feel like I could separate him from his money and that his goodwill in wanting to continue to pay me was because he cared about me, that it was strictly out of concern for me and my future and stuff like that. He said the money meant absolutely nothing to him, and that it brought him so much joy to give it to me, and it could do me a world of good, and why didn't I see that? Why did I want to turn away his gift?

I just remember screaming at him that the money meant that this was all fake and temporary, and he just looked so like, bruised when I said that. And he screamed back at me and I didn't hear him- I was already heading out the door."

"Wow, so you left? I hadn't anticipated that. How long into it was this?"

He looks up. "Umm, well I think the real sex began about 4 or 5 weeks in, so this was maybe 3 weeks after that."

"Where did you go?"

"I hopped on the bus and headed into town and I just walked around, boiling mad, for hours, talking to myself out loud, weighing my options and I decided I would have to leave. Coincidently I ran into my best friend and bass player Jim Osterberg, at this lunch counter place. I hadn't been in contact with anyone since I'd left the flophouse and he was like, wow, what the fuck is up with you? Where the fuck have you been? Now, I'd known him my entire life, and at that moment I needed so badly to unload my head, so we sat down and I just spilled the entire thing."

"Oh no."

"No, it was cool. I knew I could trust him or I wouldn't have done it."

"You told him everything?"

"Ya. I think we talked for like two straight hours. I remember I nearly went through an entire pack of smokes."

"What on earth did he say?"

"He was pretty freaked, but he said he was glad I was at least alive, because people had thought I'd offed myself or something, because I was suddenly just _gone_."

"Did you talk to him about leaving?"

"Ya, and he said I'd be a complete idiot if I did. So I said, Jim, what if you moved in with your girlfriend, and she started paying you to have sex with her? And I remember he grinned back at me and just held that grin for like a minute. And he said, Curt my friend, do you realize the ridiculousness of that statement? He said there was no guy walking this earth who would look that kind of a gift horse in the mouth, and then he said, what part of getting _paid_ to get pummeled did I _not_ like?

He was young, in fact, he was exactly my age- we were born on the same day. All he could see was the money and the fucking. He didn't understand the emotional side of it for me."

"Tell me more about that."

Big sigh. "I felt things, Brian, but it was tangled and messy and it confused me and scared the fuck out of me. Maybe that was part of the reason I bolted. But, mind you, I'd long since learned not to trust my own feelings because I knew I was so fucking needy that half the time it would be that that speaking. But, I guess the sex was forcing the feelings out of me, that had been, y'know, behind walls."

"It's the old thing about the biblical meaning of the word 'know'."

"Ya- you don't ever really _know_ somebody until you fuck 'em."

I smile. "'Slept with them', I believe is how it's normally phrased."

He shrugs. "Whatever."

I hold his hand up between us and caress it.

"Curt, you're not really telling me."

"Telling you what? I'm spilling my stupid guts, here."

"The feelings. You're not putting a name to it."

I look at him.

"Did you love him?"

He looks off. He speaks after a very long pause.

"I didn't wanna say."

"Why?"

He looks back.

"Because it just … makes the ending so much worse."

I squeeze his hand.

"Tell me."

He drops my hand. He snaps.

"No!"

He stands. He's agitated. He turns to me. He hesitates, but speaks calmly.

"I'll … I'll tell it to you later, Brian. I need to get away from this for a while."

* * *

><p>He takes off for a walk and is gone over an hour, during which I lambaste myself for mining his history to the point of pain. When he returns, I meet him at the door, stroking his face. He doesn't look at me at first.<p>

"Curt, please forgive me for being so insensitive. I feel horrible. I promise you I won't ask anymore. It's not my business."

He takes my hand, and we sit. "_I'm_ your business. And we've come this far with it, I think it's only right you hear the ending. It makes sense."

"No it doesn't. There's nothing that says you're required to tell me everything in your past."

He stands, flustered and annoyed.

"Brian, I thought we had agreed that not revealing things was like lying. _You_ said that to me. If I'm not allowed to be chickenshit to tell you things about myself even if they're painful, you're not allowed to go and turn around and suddenly be chickenshit to hear them."

Touche.

I stand and hold him. I press my lips into his neck. I whisper.

"Okay."

We hug close, for long moments. We part and kiss quickly.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

He sniffs.

"What smells so good? I hadn't noticed it til now. Is it you?"

I smile.

"No. I'm such a fag. When I'm upset I tend to bake. I made dessert when you were gone."

* * *

><p>We take it outside, a delicate Spanish sweetcake called Magdalena. The sun is beginning to set.<p>

As he speaks, the crumbs fly out of his mouth.

"Jesus Christ, this is fantastic. It's so light and fluffy."

"Ya, and it's usually eaten at breakfast. It's too bloody delish for breakfast."

"Definitely. Fuck breakfast."

I kiss his crumb-y lips. I reach for his hand.

"Where did you go?"

"Just out. Just a walk. Nowhere in particular."

I smile.

"Okay, while we're being brutally honest, I have a confession."

He laughs. The crumbs continue to fly.

"Okay, what?"

"Now, I hesitate to bring this up, but, I have this fear when you go out on your own that you're …

going off to find Bianca."

His head snaps towards me.

"Who?"

"Bianca, the girl from the club."

"That chick that … Brian, why on earth would I ever wanna see her again?"

"Oh, come on, Curt, you can't blame her, she didn't know. And she was so drop dead gorgeous. I'm always afraid you'll run into her down in the square or something, and you'll be so dazzled you'll run off with her."

"I don't think so."

"Well, when she was here, I was insanely jealous, and I began having these visions of the two of you … eloping."

The laugh bursts out of him.

"Ya, that'd happen. Brian, if I ever go out for a walk and don't come back, it will be more like I ran into one of her probably nine brothers."

"I'm telling you, it was all planned out in my head. You and Bianca were gonna either elope, or have this big traditional Spanish wedding in a church in the countryside."

He continues to laugh.

"So what, I was gonna stay and live with her in Spain? I don't speak any Spanish, and I don't think she spoke a lick of English."

"I know, but I pictured her teaching you the language, and her big extended family welcoming you as one of their own, and her baking bread for you in the morning and all this."

"And we lived in a magical flying castle in the sky. This is hilarious, Brian. I can't believe you haven't told me this til now."

"I'm glad you think it's funny. At the time, inside my insecurity, it seemed very real. You would have made a stunning couple, anyway."

"Ya, she was a knockout, but Brian, come on. Even if I wanted that, I'm hardly husband material! Can you imagine her bringing me home?"

He mimics a high pitched Spanish accent.

"Papa, meet my new gringo boyfriend! He used to be a heroin addict!"

I laugh. "They don't say 'gringo' in Spain! That's Mexico!"

He continues.

"He's an out of work rock star!"

We giggle.

"He fucked me in the shower, and I found out he has this thing about his ass."

We're in stitches.

I kick in with my own mimicry.

"Now Curt, these are my 9 older brothers. Say hello to my fiance, boys."

"No, he has no property, no car, and not a dime to his fucking name."

"No prospects for a job. He can't even speak Spanish, so I'll have to do all the translating."

"Also, he's suicidal."

"Oh, and he really likes boys too."

We double over, holding our sides.

"So there's a 50-50 chance if he ends up cheating on me, it will be with one of you!"

"Rumor has it, he can suck chrome off a bumper!"

"I hope you're ready for the blowjob of your life!"

* * *

><p>We recover in time to watch the sky turn brilliant reds and pinks. As he was the day we arrived, he is jubilant and giddy, pointing and swearing and squeezing my hand. The colors are mirrored in his eyes and in the warmth of his skin.<p>

Before it darkens completely, he stands.

"I need a very quick swim, then we'll have our talk." I hang onto his hand as he tries to walk towards it.

"Curt, don't be long, okay? It'll be cold."

He looks at me.

"I know it will be. I need it, right now."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**OKAY ...** so the suspense is killing me ! I have four official readers - _what do you guys think_ so far ? Sorry about the length of these Curt-at-17 chapters - they are very very long, and, there are a couple of more of these to go. Is it holding your interest, or am I losing you? It will get back to Brian and Curt and their many adventures afterwards, but I guess since I am more fascinated by the character of Curt, he, and his back story tend to get more ink.


	16. Curt at 17 Part 3

**AUTHOR'S WARNING**: To this point, our story has had two characters – Brian and Curt, both aged 25, interacting with each other in the present tense. The next few chapters takes a sharp turn, containing essentially a long monologue by Curt, who is recounting a complicated consensual relationship (sexual and otherwise) between himself as a minor (age 17) and an adult male- a teacher at his school. Obviously sex with a minor is illegal and taboo and I do not condone it. Be warned that the next few chapters contain, among other things (and like most of the rest of this blog), sexual activity and language that is of a graphic nature. If the idea of this offends you, please skip ahead to the chapters beyond this section.

* * *

><p>He meets me inside, in the living room, running a towel over his hair, warming himself in front of the fire, cig, as always, barely hanging on.<p>

"Okay, let's do this. Ask."

"Why is it always up to me to ask? It makes me feel like I'm pushing you."

"Okay, okay. It's just that I can't remember where we left off."

"You were talking to your friend Jim, and you'd decided to leave."

"Ya, I _did_ leave, actually."

"You did? Jesus, for how long?"

"I think a week. I had money but no hotel would rent to somebody underage, so I crashed at Jim's for a few days. I literally slept on the floor because he already had too many roommates and they were asking too many fucking questions. I was sort of hiding out from the band too, and staying at his place made that difficult."

"Why were you hiding from your band?"

"Because two of the guys went to the same school as me, and knew Michael."

"Michael, who's Michael?"

"Michael- the teacher, the guy I was living with."

"Jesus. All this time you've never mentioned his name."

"You're the first person I've told this entire story to, Brian, and you're the first person who knows his name, outside of me and Jim."

"So this must have been complicated. Your bandmate Jim knows you're living full time with your teacher and can't breathe a word about this to anyone, even his co-bandmates, right?"

"Right."

"Didn't they ask you where you'd been all that time, where you were staying?"

"Yes, and I'm a bad liar. The story kept changing. I had to get out there."

"Did Jim go to your school?"

"Yes."

"So he knew who Michael was?"

"Sort of. It was a huge school, like 5000 kids, hundreds of teachers."

"Okay."

"So your other bandmates weren't to be trusted?"

"It was just that … I wasn't that tight with them. Much as I hated faking and hiding it, the less people knew the truth, the better, because of the underage thing, and the potential catastrophe this would mean for Michael professionally and legally and all that shit, obviously."

"Right, of course. Continue."

"So, because of all of the convoluted shit, I could not stay at Jim's place more than a couple of days, so I crashed back at the fucking flop house for the rest of the week."

"And so, your mental state at this time was?"

"Confusion. Fear. Depression. I was furious at myself for thinking about him and missing him and shit. I absolutely hated the feelings I was having. By the end of the week I was completely torn up, and emotionally, and physically exhausted. I hardly fucking slept."

"Poor lovely boy."

"It sucked. I just thought, and thought, and thought 24 hours a day. I was trying to _think_ my way through it, instead of _feeling_ it, which was the exact opposite of how I always did things. And by the end of it, I decided it was absolutely over, and I was definitely moving out."

"Why?"

"Because, Brian. I knew I was in love with him and I was terrified of that- I was terrified to leave myself open and exposed, which is how it felt to me. I was convinced if I let myself fall into that, that fucking fate would fucking trick me and shove a fire poker up my ass, like it always did. And secondly, the whole money thing. To me that meant it was all a farce. It felt wrong, and it meant to me that he didn't actually care. I was still a purchased entity, no matter what he said."

"Which before, didn't bother you. You were pragmatic about it."

"Ya, which is why I was so furious at myself for feeling what I was feeling. It ruined _everything_."

"So …?"

"Well, I made my decision, and then I had to head back to the fucking house to pick up my shit, which believe me, I _so_ did not wanna do, but I wasn't leaving my guitar and my few worldly possessions there. I stopped at the bank on the way to take out some money and when the clerk handed me the slip, I saw that the account had two thousand more dollars in it."

"Holy shit! From him?"

"Yes. It was double what I'd had."

"Fuck! What did you think about that?"

"I didn't know what the fuck to think. My gut reaction had been to be pissed off, like maybe he was sending me a final message. Fuck you, you didn't want the money? Take more of it, asshole! Like that. Then I realized, Christ, that's not it. He was watching out for me. He doesn't know where I am or how long I'll be gone, or if I'll even come back. It was like a lifeline."

"He had no way to reach you- so that's how he reached you."

"Exactly."

"That's incredibly lovely, and sweet. I feel bad for him."

"I know, I know."

"But … go on."

"I went to the house. It was Saturday and I figured he'd be home but I was so determined in my mind that I was doing this; I didn't care. Plus I didn't wanna sneak in when he was at work and take all my shit. It would have felt like stealing, or something.

I let myself in, and he wasn't there, and I was like, phew! Lucky break! I quickly went upstairs and grabbed my guitar and I was stuffing my shit into a bag when of course, he came home.

I knew he could hear me rummaging around, but he didn't come up. Jesus, I was shaking, I was so nervous. I didn't want this big huge confrontation. I just wanted to slip out easily.

When I was done I went down and walked into the kitchen and I was just gonna say nothing and walk out. I wasn't even gonna look at him- I was too afraid. I put my house key down, and I remember it made this _clink_ when it hit the table- it was the only sound in the room. He was standing facing the counter and when he heard it he turned and we looked at each other for like 2 minutes, and … just seeing him after a week away … I don't know how to describe it. The energy or whatever in the room between us was just instantaneous and tangible. I felt this huge flood of emotions that I didn't expect; I could feel it churning in my stomach."

"What was it?"

He looks at me.

"Just … fucking _love_, Brian, mixed up with pain and guilt and fear and desire and then like … dizziness and nausea, and shit. It was _so_ heavy. And he looked awful; he looked heartbroken. I felt incredibly guilty suddenly. It was obvious he'd hardly slept.

The thing was, Brian, I'd made my decision. I'd been so _fucking_ sure of what I was doing, it had made such sense to me and I'd been telling it to myself for days, and now in an instant it was all dissolving. I just felt this panic attack coming on and all I could think was, I have to get out of here, I have to get out of here _now_, this has all been such a huge fucking mistake, … but I couldn't move! It was like my legs were frozen in place.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, he spoke. He sounded totally calm, the exact opposite of how he looked, and how I felt.

"Curt, can we at least talk before you give your key back?"

I didn't say anything. I felt like if I opened my mouth to respond, nothing would come out. I just stood there like a zombie.

He moved towards the table and put his hand on the back of a chair.

"Sit down."

"_No_," I blurted. I think my voice was shaking. "I have to go, Michael."

He leaned back against the counter by the table and looked at me. His eyes were really sad. He said,

"You can't stay with me 2 minutes to discuss this?"

And I just said no. And he looked at me and he said, "I care about you so much, do you know that? You're going to throw that away just because of the money?"

The money! It was like I remembered why I was mad to begin with. I just snapped at him.

"I'm not gonna be your fucking little prostitute boy any more!"

"Jesus."

"Ya. And his face turned beet red. Jesus _christ_, he was fuming! He screamed back. "I can't _believe_ you just said that to me! You were _never_ a prostitute to me!"

And I screamed back, "You fucked my throat and you paid me, what the fuck e_lse_ would you call that, _professor _?"

I gasp and cover my mouth. "Oh no."

"Yes. I was just … deep down I was screaming out in pain. I was _so_ hurt and upset. I was so angry that everything we'd done together was a ruse in my mind, that my feelings didn't amount to anything. But I didn't know how to express it. It was all coming out rage."

"How on earth did he respond ?"

"He just looked like he was in shock. He looked _so_ fucking _wounded_. And when he spoke _his_ voice was shaking, now. He said, 'Do you honestly think I care nothing about you at all, Curt? Is that what you actually think?'

He hit a nerve with that because I knew he cared. There was no question about it. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't answer.

And he said 'Listen to me Curt. I can't expect you to feel the same way because I'm an old man to you. You're young and vibrant and despite what you may think, you're whip smart. In fact you're head and shoulders above plenty of adults I know. But if you think I don't care simply because I made the mistake of paying you- even if my intentions there were entirely sincere and never intended to offend, I have to tell you something that I guess I know now will probably be unwelcome news, something I've tried to keep from you all this time because I was so afraid it would drive you away. But I still think you should know, because it's the truth.'

And I looked at him, and he said 'I'm in love with you.'"

"Oh, oh god, oh wow. What did you …?"

"I was just … in total fucking shock, totally stunned.

He said, 'And I've been in love with you almost from the first moment, and no matter what you might think right this second because you're angry with me and you're hurt and doubting my intentions, I promise you, it has nothing to do with the sex. It's _you_. I love _you_. I want _you_. Right now you're the only reason I get up every day, do you know that? You're the only thing I care about in the entire world.

Your face is like the sunrise to me. I love you with all my heart. It's true. I'm not bullshitting.'"

I'm practically crying. "Curt, that's so incredibly beautiful. What on earth did you say?"

"Well, the funny thing was, he never, ever swore, so when he said he wasn't bullshitting, that to me was incontrovertible proof that it had to have been true."

We both laugh.

"Tell me though! What did you say? What did you do?"

"I was very … emotional, as you can imagine. I was knocked flat, and embarrassed and still getting over having been angry and I don't know … I think my insides just sorta melted into a puddle on the spot, hokey as it sounds. I flopped down in the seat. I felt like I'd been walloped. I think I had this confused look on my face that quickly broke down into my lip quivering. I just felt so fragile at that moment, and he just grabbed me. He gave me this huge long bear hug and I sobbed into his chest and he bent over me and held me for like 5 minutes. I think we both cried."

I grab his hand and kiss it. "I'm just flying right now. It's really stunning. Did you tell him how you felt?"

"When he was holding me, I sobbed it out."

"Oh god, that's amazing. What did you say, do you remember?"

"I think I said first that I was so sorry for everything, and so sorry I'd hurt him- I felt _horrible_ about that, and then I said he'd been wrong when he said it would be unwelcome news, that it was the best thing I'd ever heard in my entire fucking life, which it was, to that point, and that I loved him, too."

"Gorgeous."

* * *

><p>We take a break to stretch and pee, and then lay down on the rug to resume talking. He lies face up. I lay on my side, head in my hand, watching him speak.<p>

"How did it change things?"

"Admitting we loved each other? There was nothing it didn't change, I don't think. First and foremost, for me, for what felt like the first time in my life, I was happy. I was practically skipping around, I was so fucking happy. I dove right into the GED shit and I flew through it and got all A's- first time ever. I actually started studying for the SAT's and looking into college, if you can believe it."

"Wow."

"Ya. It was all him, though. He was such a completely positive force in my life, he was so fucking _giving_. He kept saying he wasn't gonna let me shortchange myself, he didn't want me to miss out on the experience of college because it had been so transformative for him, and I was too smart not to go. No one had _ever_ said that shit to me before; I had _never_ felt like I had any brains- I'd always felt like there was something wrong with me. Suddenly I start thinking, I'm okay; it's not me, the _world_ is fucked up- I'm not! It was like my brain chemicals had changed. Huge, life-altering stuff! Huge! He helped me apply to different schools and paid the application fees and all that, which were expensive. And at the same time, I was so happy and in love and shit, I was writing tons of songs, really good shit, the best I'd written. It was like my writing improved 100% during that period- I just grew enormously as a writer, and a person."

"Were you still playing in your band?"

"I hooked up with another band, Jim and I, and a couple of new guys. It was still garage stuff but it was much more intense."

"Did you still talk with Jim about your situation?"

"Oh ya, we always talked. I still see him now. We're extremely close."

"He must have been happy for you."

"He was, but he was wary too. He was always telling me to keep my cool."

"What did he mean?"

"I think he saw clearer than I was capable of seeing at the time, because I was in my love cloud, how easily it could all be toppled. I don't think he was able to relax for that reason. Me, I was blind, blind, blind."

"I smell the end coming."

"You have an excellent sense of smell, my friend."

"Where are we now, approximately?"

"Spring. March/April/May. I moved out in June, after my birthday."

"Did you have any sense of what was coming?"

He laughs bitterly. "Nope! It was spring, the flowers were blooming, I was in love, I was having the most intensive, passionate sex I could possibly have asked for or dreamed of in a million years. It was all good, Brian. I thought this was what my life would be like from now on. I thought, I've entered a new phase, things aren't going to be bad for my anymore, like they always had. All that was in the past."

His eyes are emotional.

"I actually believed that."

He looks off and takes a deep breath.

I hold his hand. I whisper.

"I'm so sorry, my darling boy."

I caress his face. He doesn't speak for a minute, and when he does, his voice is shaky.

"I hate how immediate this all still is." He sighs. "Why is that? Why does it have to be?"

I lay my arm across him and hold him.

"I don't know. I don't know."

We lay silently for a long while. He finally pats my arm.

"Why don't we get in bed."

"I'm sorry, Curt. You must be wiped out, talking about this all day. Let's call it a night."

He looks at me.

"No, I'll finish the story in bed. I don't want this dragging on into tomorrow."

* * *

><p>We undress in separate rooms, agreeing to each wear undies and a tshirt, and climb into bed laughing.<p>

"This will have to be our nightly attire until our honeymoon."

"Wedding night."

"Oh, shit! Brian, tomorrow we have to go out and get one of those Ebenezer Scrooge hats, with the little pom pom on the end! I want one of those so bad!"

"I don't think they sell those anymore, Curt. Not since the 1860′s."

"Well, we'll have to make one, then! Do you sew?"

I kiss him softly.

"No. But I'll learn."

We lay back and ponder the ceiling a minute.

"Are you absolutely sure you wanna talk about this still?"

"Story's almost over, what would be the point of stopping now?"

"Just … to save you the pain of remembering it. I never want you to be pained."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter- the pain has never gone away from this, so I figure, it can't hurt me anymore than it has. Besides …," he turns on his side to face me. We clasp hands. He grins, "I have _you_ to protect me."

We kiss quickly.

"Mmmmh, Brian, why do you have to smell so fucking good? Douse yourself in bad eggs, will you?"

"Tomorrow, first thing, I promise."

We laugh. We look at each other.

"Okay. Time's up. Ask."

I squint at him timidly.

"Well, I guess I'm trying to stave off the ending as long as I can. Can you tell me a bit more about the sex ?"

He laughs.

"I love your love of the sex."

I grin. We kiss quickly.

"Anything in particular you wanna know?"

"Ya, I'm just … curious. After you told each other how you felt… What was it like the first time you made love again ?"

He thinks.

"Well, mostly what I remember from that day was talking and holding hands and stuff. It was very healing. We spilled our guts to each other for hours and hours, just talking about our lives and our childhoods and all that. He knew a little bit about what had gone on in mine, but he didn't know the whole story, so that was pretty heavy for him. I didn't know that until he was married off, he'd never been with a girl, never even kissed a girl prior to that- he'd always been 100% queer. I couldn't help but be impressed by that, because it was just so ballsy. Whereas me, I could never make up my fucking mind. I just wanted sex and fucking, and I was interested in anything that could get me that. The equipment or method or whatever, didn't matter so much.

The other thing was, growing up being a fag, especially in the times he grew up- we're talking the 40′s and 50′s, he had to be that much tougher than straight guys. He had to completely hide out from his family and pretty much everyone else, and the rest of the time be on his guard and ready for a fight like 100% of the time. Straight guys have no idea what fucking wimps they are, and they think the queers are the wimps! _No_ fucking idea. I'd _love_ to see them walk in a fag's shoes for 24 hours! They'd be cowering in the fucking corner, man."

"I completely agree. Did he talk about other relationships … before you?"

"He had a brief relationship in college with a one of his frat brothers, if you can believe it."

"Actually I can. Talk about hiding in plain sight."

"No shit. And he lived with another teacher for a while. A _math_ teacher." He shudders. I laugh. "But he said there were a lot of problems and they split up. I think he was pretty lonely, overall. But then that was very much the way it was back then, I gather. It was all shameful and had to be hidden and, especially if you were on the shy side, you didn't have much opportunity to meet other guys like you, and even if you did, it was too dangerous to reveal yourself."

He smiles at me.

"But then that's the great thing about _you_, Demon- you actually made it hip and cool!"

"People won't _stop_ revealing themselves now!"

We laugh.

"Okay, I'm just thinking of this. Did he ever have a problem with the fact that you liked girls, too?"

"No, why would he? I think he understood I was a … complicated boy."

I smile and kiss him on the cheek.

"Okay. Sex. I still haven't heard about the sex."

He rubs his hands together in exaggerated fashion.

"Well! While we were talking about the week we'd been away from each other –"

"–Oh, wait! I wanna hear about that! Was he absolutely stricken?"

"Yes, he told me he was beside himself with worry, first of all, and he was devastated overall. He had no idea where I was and he hardly slept, and in fact he refused to sleep in his bed, even, because he thought of it as _our_ bed now, and it would have felt so awful being in there alone."

"How incredibly sweet. Where did he sleep, though?"

"Couch. Plus he said he didn't wanna miss me in case I snuck home in the middle of the night."

"Was he ever afraid you wouldn't come back ?"

"Oh, ya."

"Did you ever consider it? I mean, what if you'd had a place to crash that wasn't half bad?"

"Well, I like to think I'd have come to my senses," he squeezes my hand, "like I did with you. Real love is rare as fuck."

I lean to kiss him. I whisper into his mouth.

"Now the sex. Tell me about the sex."

"Okay, well I was getting to that but you … anyway. We were sitting on said couch holding hands. After hours and hours of talking, we had gotten around to discussing the sex and how good it was between us and what a marvel and a beautiful thing that was and all that. He said it was the best of his life hands down, and certainly for me with my limited experience, it was absolutely mind blowing. And I remember we recounted my first night there, and we discussed how nerve racking that was for both of us, turns out I wasn't the only one who was terrified, and that led to discussing the first time he went down on me cuz it was only a few weeks later, and that led to talking about the phone sex that followed, and the broom closet that followed _that_, and it just sort of built from there. We were both getting turned on.

I remember he leaned in and he put his hand in my hair and he looked at me and told me how much he loved me and how much he'd missed me, and we kissed, and it was really incredibly sweet."

He crosses his arms in exaggerated fashion and looks at me mock serious.

"And that's it. That's the story."

"I don't bloody think so!" I squeal, and slap his shoulder. "Talk, Wild!"

"Okay okay! We did it on the coffee table!"

"Shit, really?"

"No, I'm kidding. It was an antique, like half the shit in the house. It would never've held us."

"_So_ …?"

"Jesus, you _are_ an eager lad."

I grab a lock of his hair and mock-yank it. "Listen to me, Wild, I'm going to be expected to share your bed for _over a week_ without benefit of fucking you, so in the meantime you'd better at least _talk_."

He laughs heartily.

"Alright. We were kissing, and it got heated. Jesus, he was a good kisser. Plus, we hadn't gone a single day without fucking in a long while, and here it had been an entire week. We reached into each other's pants, and there was a bit of mutual masturbation and I ended up climbing up into his lap and I rode him that way."

"Jesus, nice. Not the super intense blockbuster explosion I had expected, but nice."

"What, you're disappointed?"

I laugh. "No, it's just wasn't what I was expecting."

"Well it was the first of many times- we got right back on schedule."

"But I'm still not clear on how the love declarations changed the sex, if it did."

"Well I don't know if I can entirely credit the love thing with what ensued, but I know it definitely changed after that point."

"Oh goody. In what way, pray tell?"

"Well for instance the next morning. We woke up and we'd fucked and we were just sort of cuddling in bed, y'know, that post-peak glow, naked and wrapped up in each other and all that, and he looked at me and he was running his hands through my hair and he said he wanted to ask me a question, and I said, okay, what? And he said the sex we were having was unbelievably wonderful, and it was so wonderful, he felt like he wanted to take it a bit further.

So I of course said, well what do you mean? And he said there's the physical, and that is exciting and hot and it makes you come, and then there's this deep mental stuff that will blow you out of the water. He still wasn't really explaining it. And I said okay, well, what does it involve? How does it work?

And he said he'd like me to turn my body over to him for a day and explore that side of things with me, and would I trust him with that?"

"Wow. Heady stuff for you, I'm sure."

"Well it was just … odd. I didn't understand what he was getting at, I mean, he was being so cryptic, how could I? So I kept pressing him, and he finally said, Curt, the magic of it is in the wonder. He didn't wanna ruin it by explaining it all. And he again asked me if I trusted him. And I said yes. So he said, then you'll agree? You'll surrender yourself to me for the day? And I mean, when he put it that way, it sounded so delectable that I said yes."

"Boy, you've got me right on the edge of my seat, here."

"And he kissed me and he said I was this beautiful jewel that he treasured, and he wanted to stretch me and explore me in ways that I hadn't been before. And he said remember the first times with deeping when it felt odd and strange, but pretty soon it was making you hard? He said this was somewhat along those lines, in that he was pretty sure it would be something entirely new for me, and it was fulfilling a long-standing erotic fantasy for him. So I'm like, okay! Ya! Let's do it! It just sounded so hot, whatever 'it' was.

And he said there were things he was going to ask me to do which were going to sound very simple, but they would involve every bit of my focus and concentration, and he wanted me to trust him and just follow his instructions as best I could, all the way through. He said the excitement for him would be in watching me comply. And I said, okay.

And he got up and went into his dresser and pulled something out. I didn't know what it was, a piece of material of some sort. And he asked me if I'd ever been blindfolded before."

"Oh yummy!"

"And I was like, huh? Y'know, what a letdown. I said, umm, _no_, not since I was maybe 5 years old and we played pin the tail on the donkey at somebody's birthday party. I had absolutely no clue what this could have to do with anything or why anyone would wanna do that. And he said it was very simple: cutting off one of your senses heightens the rest of them, and in the process, drives your imagination over the cliff, and that's where the mind becomes this amazingly erotic tool.

And I was still doubtful about it I guess, and he said that's where the trust comes in, and the surrender, and was I still willing because he wasn't gonna do it unless I was willing. And I said ya. I didn't wanna disappoint him. And he had me sit up on the edge of the bed and he wrapped this soft material around my eyes and tied it at the back, so I can't see at all- pitch black. And he said I want you to listen closely and focus.

He took me by the elbow and he had me stand, and now this was weird, because he's walking me now, and again, I can't see. So I'm instantly relying on him, ie trusting him not to let me fall or whatever. And he walks me over to the wall and leans me back against it and says just to relax and stand there a minute, that he wants me to be quiet while he admires the sight of my body, and so, now of course, I feel 12 times naked, and more than that, _exposed_. I feel shy. I can't see him, but I can so totally _feel_ his eyes on me because he just told me he was watching me, and I'm helpless to just get up and walk away because I'm dependent on him now to move around, y'see?"

"Yes. It's all cyclical. Splendid erotic mind the man had."

"Absolutely. Have you ever been blindfolded by the way?"

"No, but I've done a bit of blindfolding before."

"Wow okay. Believe me, I'd never even _heard_ of this concept before. So that first minute when I was feeling like that, it was beginning to open up this huge big window in my mind. It was pretty fucking powerful. Little did I know it was the tip of the fucking iceberg."

"Go on, please. This is scorching."

"Ya well so I'm standing there feeling extremely naked, and then he tells me he'll be right back, and I'm like, come on, man, you're not gonna leave in the middle of this? I said Michael, where on earth are you going? And he said it doesn't matter, and to please just stand there and keep quiet.

So I hear nothing for probably a minute, which to me of course, feels like an hour. And then I suddenly hear him speak, he's right in front of me, and he says, Curt, I want you to know I never left the room- I've been right here the whole time, watching, and I need to tell you the sight of you standing there prone like that, waiting, and wondering, has gotten me extremely excited.

So now I'm thinking, oh man, I want some of that, gimme some! I'm picturing that big beautiful hard-on. I _have_ to picture it now because I can't _see_ it.

And the next split second, I feel his breath in my neck, he's standing _right_ in my fucking face and I reach for him and he says Curt, keep still, just focus. And I mean, that's a weird feeling. I can feel his breath, hovering over my nipple and stuff, and I can't touch him. And then I can feel that I'm sorta half hard.

And then I fucking feel his breath over my cock, and I go to put my hands in his hair because I want this so bad, and at the last second I put them back down at my sides. I'm learning already. And he just fucking _hovers_ with his mouth; doesn't touch me, and it's driving me completely crazy. _Any_ second, he might do it, and of course, if I could fucking _see_, my brain would _know_; I'd have that visual cue, but instead I'm entirely reliant on scent and touch and my imagination of him down on his knees."

"Phew! Powerful."

"Ya, and shit, I mean, how much of a guy's triggers are visual?"

"Ninety percent?"

"And now picture that you're 17."

"Oh!" I laugh. "Shit!"

"So to have that taken away, especially for the first time in your life–"

"–Forces your imagination to fill the void–"

"–And just ups the ante to such a crazy degree, arousal-wise–"

"–Because it mixes in this element of surprise–"

"–With a touch of nervousness and discomfort, even–"

"–Bloody fucking hell!"

We laugh.

"And then what happens is, out of the blue I feel something soft on my cock. And then I'm like, _hallelujah_, his lips! But then I'm like, well wait, no, what on earth _is_ that? Is that his tongue? But it's not wet. Finger? No. It's something silky and soft. Is that his cock? No, shucks. Well now whatever it is, it's being wound around and around and around my cock and balls, and I'm just baffled. It turns out to be a very long strip of satin material, maybe an inch wide, but I couldn't figure it. I said 'Michael, what is that? What are you doing?', and he would only say to focus on it, just put all of my energy into that.

And then the most _amazing_ sensation in the whole fucking world. Suddenly he's pulling really slowly on it; he just give it this very gentle tug, and it starts moving and unwinding over me, and of course it's the softest, silkiest, most amazing, continuous stroke/caress sensation going over not only my balls but at the same time, all the way up my cock."

"Phew!"

"And so I'm just like 'OOOOHHH!', right out loud, and then he pulls the last of it away and I'm stiff as christ."

"Fantastic! Only, I don't know that I can stand to hear much more."

He looks at me, concerned. "Oh Brian, just hop in shower. Turn the cold spray on yourself. It won't take long. I'll wait for you."

I grimace. "God, I wish there was an alternative."

"Well, you can beat off, of course," he smiles, "but I sorta like the idea of both of us going through the agony together."

I kiss him. "You're right. Stay there, I'll be back."

* * *

><p>When I return to the bed he's giggling over my forlorn, sorrowful look.<p>

"It's not funny! I may never have children."

He kisses me.

"Fucking pussy."

I snuggle up to him.

"What about you? You seem surprisingly unaffected."

"No, I'm just saving it for after this last bit. After _that_, I'll need a good long fucking shower."

"Well, do tell, then. He had just unwrapped a beautiful young package."

"Oh! What a nice way of putting it! Okay. What he did was, he starts all over again winding it around and around, over my balls and up, 'the whole shebang', you might say."

I roll my eyes.

"And he tells me how exciting this is for him, and how much he loves the smell of my skin."

"Mmmh, nice."

"And then he says he wants me to hold still while I do this, not to move, that my whole job was to focus on the sensation. And I can feel he's left the tip uncovered and then I feel him exhaling warm breath on it, and it's just, oh Brian, almost more than I can bear. I'm anticipating at _any_ second he's going to put his mouth on me, but I don't know when or if that might happen, and then he goes and pulls on the material, and it begins this slow, continuous, incredibly silky journey, and the whole time I can feel his mouth hovering, and I mean, fuck!"

"How on earth did you stand it? You must have come on the spot."

"Well, by the time he'd pulled the last of the material away, I was very, very close. I'm panting and he stood up and he put his face in my neck, not making direct contact, mind you, just hovering again, and he whispered to me that I was the sexiest, most amazing creature that ever walked the earth."

"True."

He smiles. "Well of course to me, _he_ was the one, y'know. And I went to reach for him, but he just took me by the elbow and walked me away from the wall and over to the bed, and laid me back, and he told me how hard I'd gotten, and how much that pleased him."

"Jesus. There is such an intense top/bottom thing going on here."

"Exactly. Very, very intense, but it got much more so. He said one of the things that excited him about me was how quickly I responded and how quickly I came, and he said as beautiful as that was, he wanted to experiment with slowing me down and teaching me about lasting."

"Bloody hell!"

"So he said he wanted me to lie there and he was actually gonna leave the room now, and would be back in a couple of minutes, and he said I want your word that you won't take off the blindfold or try to peak under it, and that you won't touch yourself while I'm gone.

And I mean, my cock is just absolutely _aching_, so that last one was a tough one, but I said ya, because I was sort of under his spell by this point. It was just bewitching, the whole thing. He'd just created this incredibly super-charged erotic environment, and all just with words- he'd never actually touched me- our skin hadn't made contact! Do you think I would have thought that possible at that age?"

"Nope."

"So I'm lying there and my head is spinning, and again, it feels like he's gone a half hour, and the whole time I'm just throbbing like a motherfucker, I'm so turned on, and it doesn't dissipate.

He comes back in, and he says it was difficult for him to resist me the way I was, and that was part of the reason he left, because lasting is about drawing yourself out and delaying your own gratification, and he said that goes in both directions, and that it would intensify my orgasm when it finally came, maybe to a point I'd never felt before.

And he said because I was still so hard he was going to have to cool me down so we could get back to square one, and he said he'd gone outside and he had an icicle in his hand."

"What?"

"Well it _wasn't_ an icicle, it was just a big ice cube, but see, that image was planted in my brain, and so to me it absolutely _was_ a big icicle, scary & weird a prospect as that was."

"Yes. Did your cock cower immediately?"

"No, I was stiff as a fucking board still."

"Did he at least ask you if it was okay first? I think that's maybe going a bit too far."

"Ya, but again, I was so transfixed, I was just like, ya, anything, I don't care. Just get me off! Except of course the second it hit pay dirt, I was like, oh no. Not fun. And again, in my mind, I'm picturing this big phallic icicle running down my cock."

"Oh, Curt. Did it hurt?"

"No, it was just … shocking, the intense cold. You couldn't help but gasp over it. But it worked pretty much instantly; I went right soft. And then he dried me off with a towel cuz it had dripped cold water, and he said he was sorry and he hoped it wasn't too awful, and I said well, I wasn't a fan of it, and he laughed. He said it was so amazing to see once again how responsive I was, even if it was in reverse. He said he was jealous of all the nerve endings in my cock."

We laugh.

"And then he leaned down and he actually blew on it, I'm not kidding, to dry it completely."

"Blow job! How did that feel?"

"Well it was weirdly soothing, in a way. No one had ever 'blown' me before."

We laugh.

"And then he starts discussing my cock and what it's meant to him and shit, how beautiful it is to him and how turned on he was just sitting there. And he's going on like this and then without warning I'm feeling the silky material running over me again."

"Wow."

"Ya, but he wound it around just my cock this time. It was staggered the whole length, and I instantly got a bit stiff. And I can't see this, but what he's doing is, he's holding both ends of the material, one in each hand, ie one down by the base, and then the other up at the tip, and he's pulling on each end in unison so that it starts sliding around the entire shaft all at once and there's no slack."

"Jesus Christ, he was like a magician."

"Yes, or a fucking witch, or something. It was brilliant, and devious, how it worked. All you can feel is this fantastic silky _stroke_ all the way up and down. Such a different feel from anything else, and it was just … exquisite. I'm lying there moaning and squirming, and I get hard pretty quick, and it's the most delicious thing in the whole world."

"Oh god. I hope he let you come this time."

"Nope! He stops dead, and he starts talking to me. He says lasting is about focusing your mind, and he wanted me to listen closely. He said he wanted me to lie completely still, no matter what I was feeling- not to move a muscle. And then he said he was going to test me for a minute- he'd set the timer on his watch."

"So he's _timing_ it?"

"Ya. Don't knock it, Brian. It was blisteringly hot. But when he said all this, I'm only half hearing him- my head's spinning I'm so turned on, and I just said ya, okay. I didn't understand why he would want me to lie still, but I didn't think it would be any big deal, especially if it was only a minute.

So the material begins moving again, and my head is instantly writhing on the pillow and my fists are clenching and he says to me: 'Still, Curt. Focus.'

And the material's still sliding all over me and my mind is split in two. I freeze solid, but then probably 7 seconds later I can't stand it, it's so hot, and I forget and I'm back to breathing and squirming, and he says, just in this calm, steady voice: 'Still for me, Curt.'"

"Oh! 'For me'! Now that is unbearably erotic."

"Yes, it's _his_ doing- he's controlling it. Incredible. So I stop dead again, and it's like a comedy or something. 8 seconds later my head is moving on the pillow and my toes are curling and he very calmly reminds me again. By the time we reached a minute I'm all flustered and stressed and extremely turned on."

"Oh god, the sight of it must have driven him nuts! It's driving me batty just thinking about it!"

"Well, I remember he said he was incredibly excited to watch me struggle- the inner struggle I was going through."

"Fuck, this is the dominant stuff we talked about."

"Ya, there's no way around that. Imposing rules that you know will be nearly impossible to follow, and then enjoying the sight of the person as they at least try."

"I wonder how much of it you actually sat still for?"

"Fuck, maybe 15 seconds out of 60? And then I'm like, okay, I did it, now fuck me already!"

We laugh.

"But he said this was important and I needed practice, and that another side to it that I should try to master was the more difficult area of the verbal, meaning I can express myself with my body, but not a sound out of my mouth."

"Mmm, I definitely like this."

"And I remember I lifted my head off the pillow and I said to him, "not a sound?", and he said ya. It was too fresh in my mind, how good it felt, and I was thinking I can't possibly do this, but I didn't wanna wimp out in front of him, either, so I'm telling myself, 'a minute, I can do a fucking minute'.

"And he starts the pull & tug, but he's going extra slow now, so time sort of expands, and he's also pulling a little more so the grip is tighter, and it's just … intensely subtle, if there is such a thing."

"Were you able to stand it?"

He laughs. "Fuck no! I mean I'm writhing all over the place and my hips are moving and I think I maybe managed to keep quiet for 8 miraculous seconds or something, and he shushes me, and I close my mouth thinking that will work, but pretty soon I can hear this sound and it's this vibration reverberating up from my throat and he's right on top of me saying "quiet, now", just in that same deadpan whisper. I mean, a minute of this- literally a full minute of struggling to keep myself in check while my cock is undergoing this ungodly massage … I mean, fuck! I did not pass the test, shall we say."

"I wanna hear more about how wild this must have drove him."

"Well I remember he specifically commented on the hip thing- I would invariably go into these little involuntary fuck motions and that used to drive him bonkers."

"Do you remember what he said?"

"Just that he was waiting for it and how beautiful and natural and incredibly sexy it was to see it take me over. And how difficult it was to not jump me when he saw it."

"Mmm, I rather agree."

We grin.

"But so, you managed not to come?"

"Somehow."

"Well, it was an _awful_ lot to ask of a teenage boy, don't you think? Whereas your entire physiology at that point is designed and geared towards a quick peak and a fast turnover, here you are literally fighting nature."

"Ya, true. I guess I hadn't thought of that aspect of it." He smiles. "You're protecting me again."

"Well I can't help it. It's wonderful, but I feel bad for you in a way, too."

"Well don't! Believe me, I wasn't sorry. Maybe inside of it I was because he was literally generating so much frustration in me, but ultimately it stretched me out and expanded me. It opened up this whole world. I was lucky. Some people go their whole lives without being stretched."

"True. How on earth did he keep from pummeling you though? How did he stand it? I wouldn't have been able to resist."

"He was a teacher! It was his thing to be patient while giving instructions." He laughs.

I groan. "Go on."

"Well he took my hand and he said how proud he was of me, I'd completely blown him away with my stamina and my willingness to endure the whole thing, and that if it was okay with me, there was one final part of this, and it was the most important, most difficult one, the culmination of the whole thing, and would I be willing to go one step further? Y'know, like I was in any position or frame of mind to say no.

He said it involved bringing me right to the brink, he called it 'brinking' in fact, and then backing off, and then resuming, and backing off again. He said it was known as 'stop and start', and it was the best way to teach my body to last. And I said okay, but how long will we wait in between? And he said 'not long', but that I _wasn't_ to let myself come, under any circumstances- that that would ruin the whole thing.

So I'm lying there sweating, just weary from over-arousal, and I must have had this crestfallen look on my face because he said don't worry, you can do this, and you'll come after it's all over, outside of this whole thing, and believe me, due to the buildup, it will be unbelievably intense and strong and fast, like a lightning bolt. Totally worth the wait.

I don't even think I said anything, I was too drained. I think I just nodded, and he sort of unwound the material, and I remember as he was doing this, he said to me, all nonchalant, Curt, what is the most sensitive, nerve packed part of your cock? And I said the tip, and just beneath the tip. And he said 'especially on the underside, right?' I mean, he of all people knew this, but he made me focus on it and answer. And he rewound the material so that it sat right over this same area, and then he let drop that he'd put a small soft knot in it, and that with certain movements, the knot might brush against the underside, so I should be prepared for that, because again, I wasn't to come under any circumstances."

"Absolutely devious! "

"Ya, but see, even more devious is that he didn't actually put a knot in it at all! He just planted that seed in my head, almost like fucking hypnosis, so that that is absolutely what I felt!"

"Incredible. He _was_ a fucking hypnotist!"

"Well, when you're in that state, you're so susceptible to suggestion and all, so …"

"True."

"So, y'know, in between I've gone a bit soft, and now I'm gearing up mentally for this more challenging thing I'm going to be put through, and thinking, oh man, if I can just hang on, I'll come like gangbusters _afterwards_.

So he says okay, here are the rules. If you feel like you're getting close, just say the word 'edge', that's all you have to do, and I'll instantly stop. Don't forget. And I said, 'edge', why 'edge'? Not that it mattered, it just seemed like an odd choice of words, but he said it's just easier to say that when you're on the brink because you say it with your mouth open, which is how your mouth will be anyway, that it's not 'plosive'. Jesus, he was such a teacher! And also, he said when you're in that state, you're liable to curse and say 'I'm coming' anyway, and he doesn't want any confusion.

So he starts the pull and tug, and it's _immediately_ so much more intense because it's so concentrated on that one area, it was just unbearable, but at least I can squirm and moan all I want. And then he says 'remember, watch for the knot', the nonexistent knot which is now very much in my mind and which I can now very much picture and feel, and just as I'm trying to grasp this without losing my fucking mind, he starts to speed up and I'm like, jesus christ, hold on, wait! I'm hurtling towards orgasm so fast, and then I remember.

'Edge', I pant out. But he doesn't stop, so I'm like, oh god, he didn't hear me, I must have whispered it and he didn't hear me, and oh fuck, 'EDGE!'. I'm like pleading him, but the bastard goes _faster_, and … oh Brian. The _feeling_ of it, and I'm so rock solid hard at this point, and I'm twisting on the bed sweating and straddling this impossible, unbearable line where I am _going _to fucking come in another second. I'm just absolutely at war with myself and I'm so baffled that he isn't stopping, and I just sort of squeak out the word 'edge' one final time. I mean, I'm literally _begging_ him, and what does he do? He speeds up further and says to me, 'watch for the knot', and that was fucking well it for young Curt.

I reared back and I think the very top of my head was tipping completely upside down I was bent so far backward, and I just remember this scream came hurtling out of my lungs and I came _huge_, absolutely huge. It was one of the first times I can remember feeling myself spasming continuously for like a minute- it was just spurting and spurting out of me. They say women are multi-orgasmic. I think I was in that moment."

"And there's absolutely no film of this anywhere?"

He smiles. "None."

"Tragic. So it was all phony, the bit about not coming?"

"Just a fantastically ingenious way of messing with my mind, distracting me, and adding to the tension and buildup."

"But it doesn't sound like it helped you to last. Was that even his intention or was that just the excuse to watch you squirm and struggle?"

"Oh the struggle bit was definitely a trigger for him, but he was sincere about the lasting too. I know by the end of the 6 months, I was much more in control of my orgasms. I mean, I was still young- I was still a teenager, but because of him, I'd definitely begun to cross that threshold into adult sexuality."

"So, I'm curious what impact this more advanced stuff have on your tastes, on your triggers and stuff? I mean, was it pushing buttons that were already there?"

"I think I was pretty much a clean slate and he influenced me and I took on his tastes, for sure. I don't think he was pushing buttons, I think he was actually _creating_ them."

"Okay, which leads me to ask: The whole blindfold thing- that is closely linked for some people with stuff like–"

"–Being tied down."

"Ya. Did you get into any of that?"

"He definitely wanted to, but for me, because of the bad associations from the hospital, which when I think about it now, I mean, I met him only what, 3 and half, 4 years after I'd been released from there, so it was all still too fresh in my mind. So no, there wasn't any of that, unfortunately."

"I suspect you got your pummeling though?"

He grins. "Oh yes. He climbed on the bed and he said he thought he'd told me not to come. He was pretending to be angry, and we kissed like a fucking vice grip. It was pretty wild. He flipped me over and yanked my hips up and I went to remove the blindfold and he told me in no uncertain terms to keep it on. He said hang onto that headboard, and he went right in, no preamble. Rough- it was one of my all time top 10."

"I didn't know you kept a chart. Am I on that somewhere?"

"No." We kiss. "You're off the charts."

* * *

><p>"So, any more blindfold adventures or was that it?"<p>

"Oh, well, no. I got to know sex with the lights out pretty fucking well. I became quite fond of it actually."

I grin sly.

"Any other examples you care to share?"

He laughs. "You never lose your appetite, do you?"

"Not where you're concerned. Even if it _is_ with someone else. Come on, spill."

"Well, some of it's a little embarrassing."

I sit upright. "That's okay, I don't mind."

"Well, it was a bit … I mean, he would concoct these erotic little games."

I rub my hands together briskly. "Ooohhh goody! Why on earth would you be embarrassed by that?"

"Well it was, I don't know. A little more on the dom/sub side."

"You say that like it's a bad thing! And amazingly, you were the sub. Still can't believe it, but no matter. Tell."

"I don't know. It had a stupid fucking hokeyass name."

"It had a name? Wow, it was that structured?"

He looks at me sideways.

"Ya, ya, okay- 'he was a teacher'. Come on, spill! What was it called?"

"C.C.C."

"Which stands for?"

He winces. "Catch the Cock in the Corner."

I burst out laughing.

"Catch the Cock in the Corner! That's great! It tells you everything you need to know. Fuck, I was sure one of the C's would at least stand for 'Curt'! As in, like maybe … Curt Comes Continuously!"

I keep laughing

"So what, he'd jerk you off with a catcher's mitt?"

I dissolve into a fit of giggles.

"No, asshole. I'd kneel down with my mouth hanging open, naked and blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back, and he'd unzip himself and make me lunge for it."

I stop dead.

"Jesus Holy _FUCK_. He _was_ dominant."

"He could be."

I squint, looking off.

"That is just … of such an intensity, I can't imagine what it did to your 17 year old head. Can we try it sometime?"

He smiles.

"Okay, but so … he'd be clothed, and you'd be naked?"

"Usually. He'd call before he left work and tell me how and where he wanted it."

"Fuck! I'm getting in the shower!" I mock leave. He grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"Wait, though. I thought you said you never got into the tying down business!"

"We did and we didn't. It was all mental. He'd tell me my hands were bound behind my back, and to me, they were. All I'd be doing though was holding them back there."

"Like how?"

He turns and shows me. One elbow is bent at the waist with his arm reaching across his back to meet the other arm, which hangs straight.

"Hmm. And so the trick was …"

"I couldn't see. He'd have me hold still at first, and do stuff like … run the tip around the perimeter of my lips, where I could literally _almost_ taste it, just to make me want it that much worse, and then he'd do stuff like, y'know … slide it across my tongue and then pull it away when I went for it."

"Holy fucking CHRIST! Evil!"

"It would make a boy hard. I developed a deep understanding of the word 'want'".

"Um, ya! So how long would this go on for?"

"I don't know. As long as we could stand it."

"Who would cave first?"

He laughs. "I don't know, Brian."

"Would he say anything to you?"

"Always."

"Like what?"

"Just … asking questions."

"Like WHAT?"

"Just obvious shit that won't sound hot if I tell you now, but in the context, it rips your head off."

I grit my teeth and mock-dig my nails into his arm. "LIKE … ?"

"You could probably tell me. Simple shit, nothing terribly ingenious. Try."

"I don't know!"

"Come on, Brian. You're no virgin to this stuff. Think. What would you wanna say if the 17 year old version of me was kneeling naked and blindfolded in front of your outstretched hard-on right now?"

"Bloody fucking hell, are you trying to kill me?"

He laughs.

"Okay, okay. I'd probably say … 'Curt, do you want this'?"

He nods. "Ya, good. What else?"

"Maybe …, 'are you hungry for it'?"

"Mmm, nice. Language, though. Some spice. You're good at that."

"Do you want to lick my balls?"

"MMmmmh! Fuck, Brian."

"Do you want me to come in your face?"

"BINGO!" He laughs. "You're fantastic!"

And now, very wound up.

"So would he?"

"What?"

"Come in your face?"

"Sometimes."

"While you were wearing the blindfold?"

"Ya."

"Other times too?"

"Ya."

"Was it the first times anyone had?"

"Purposely? Yes."

"He would do it on purpose?"

"Ya, sometimes."

"Would he tell you he was going to?"

"Sometimes. Other times he would begin coming in my mouth and then pull out at the last second and spray it in my face."

"Fuck! Did you like it?"

"No, not … at first."

"But eventually–"

"–Yes."

"Would he say anything to you afterwards?"

He looks slightly embarrassed.

"He'd ah, tell me what a waste it was, and ah, scoop it off my neck or wherever, and … sort of … feed it to me. Make me lick it off his fingers."

I stand bolt upright.

"ALRIGHT! I'm officially taking a shower! And not a cold one!"

"Awww, Brian, you can't wait?"

I run out of the room and call back.

"NO!"


	17. Curt at 17 Part 4

**AUTHOR'S WARNING**: To this point, our story has had two characters – Brian and Curt, both aged 25, interacting with each other in the present tense. This is the last of the chapters which take a sharp turn, containing essentially a long monologue by Curt, who is recounting a complicated consensual relationship (sexual and otherwise) between himself as a minor (age 17) and an adult male- a teacher at his school. Obviously sex with a minor is illegal and taboo and I do not condone it. Be warned that this and the preceding chapters under the 'Curt at 17′ heading contain, among other things (and like most of the rest of this blog), sexual activity and language that is of a graphic nature. If the idea of this offends you, please skip ahead to the chapters beyond this section.

* * *

><p>I return to the room. We share a grin and kiss.<p>

"How was it?"

"Quick."

"Ya, what was it, 3 minutes?"

We laugh.

I check the clock. It's late. He looks at me.

"So … Are you ready for the end?"

"If you feel like you want to tell me. I do feel guilty, Curt, making you wrench this all up."

"I don't know. I just feel like I'll tell it, and then maybe it will help cement it behind me."

"You've never told anyone?"

"Well, Jim knew the whole story, because he was there at the time. Other than him, no one, though."

"Okay, but if you decide it's too much, please don't keep going. I can't bear to see you upset."

He kisses me on the forehead.

"I know."

He sighs. "Okay, well, where does one begin? It was June. We were approaching my birthday. My 18th fucking birthday. We had had an amazing few months and it was all feeling terribly permanent and fixed to me. Like I said, I was thinking, 'this is my life now'. We even had made plans to move to Ann Arbor and live there."

"Wow! I didn't realize."

"Ya, we were a couple in every way that counts. We might as well have been fucking married."

"So, Ann Arbor because …"

"He'd loved it all his life and I really dug it too. We'd gone there many a weekend, and it just had this thriving art and music scene, and plus this alternate vibe. Detroit was still stuck in the 50′s. Ann Arbor was more progressive and shit. It was cool. It didn't feel quite as risky being queer there."

"So was he gonna still teach?"

"Oh ya, he loved it. His dream was to teach at the University- no more of this high school shit, and I was gonna enroll there as well."

"Wow, permanent, like you said."

"Mmm hmm. So it was a like 3 weeks before my birthday. This new guy had just moved in next door, a real motherfucker it turns out, and already Michael had had a couple of run-ins with him, just over dumb shit- bushes that stretched an inch over the property line, idiotic suburban shit. The guy had complained to the town over this stuff, even. What was ultimately lying underneath it all though, was that he was a dyed in the wool fag-hater.

So one day I'd come home from these SAT prep classes I was taking and I'm walking up the front walk and the guy's leaning over the fence leering at me. I didn't know who the fuck he was at that time. He says to me, hey boy, how old are you? And I looked at him and I said 21, too young for you."

I laugh.

"And he called me a little smartass and said I didn't look 21, because I mean, I didn't. I looked 12. And it just suddenly freaked me a bit, that we were discussing my age, and I quickly went in the house. I didn't really grasp the potential magnitude of this exchange until I recounted the story to Michael that night.

He was very, very upset and he scolded me for my inability to hold my tongue. He said he expected better from me, that I wasn't a child anymore. I mean, we had long discussed the need for discretion with our situation. He went to parties and social gatherings and I couldn't go along, that was a given, and to any neighbors who noticed me or asked, I was his nephew. Plus, they knew he'd been married, there had been a woman living at the place, so that was good cover as well. Nobody questioned anything, it was all cool for y'know, the entire time I'd been there, so you relax.

So nothing happens, y'know, weeks go by, and we forgot about my whole little interchange with the homo-hater. And now it's my 18th birthday. There was a party over at Jim's and my band played, and it was great. I wanted Michael to be there, but it was the same deal- too risky, people would know him from the school, and it would just be impossible to explain why a fucking _teacher_ was there.

So anyway, we're having a great time and I get semi-wasted and shit. We had a cake and some pot and I was happy. I was happy all the time then. Some time later it all winds down and Michael picks me up like a couple of blocks up the street- that's how stupid it was; I hated that we had to hide and pretend.

We go home, and he's got this homemade cake- complete with 18 lit fucking candles on it. Homemade frosting, the whole bit- he was a really good cook. Now I mean, I'd already had cake but it was this disgusting fake supermarket ice cream cake shit, and here he's made my favorite kind and all.

And I'm sitting at the table and he's standing behind me leaning down with his hands around my chest and he says into my ear, 'make a wish'. I remember I wished for Ann Arbor to work out okay. I was very focused on our new life there, because it represented the dividing line between all the bad things that had happened to me in my life, and the promise that the new life held, the good stuff that awaited. So then he gives me a card, and he's written in it, and it's so fucking beautiful."

He looks off.

I stroke his face. "It's alright, my boy."

After a minute he speaks. He clears his throat as his voice cracks.

"It fucking says 'To my hero on his 18th birthday. Thank you for the 6 happiest months of my life. Always remember I love you.'"

I squeeze his hand and whisper tenderly. "His hero. Incredibly sweet."

"It's what he called me sometimes, ironically. I mean, to me … he absolutely had it backwards."

I raise his hand to kiss it. "I know, my angel."

He clears his throat again. After a beat he continues.

"So … he gives me these amazing fucking gifts- a couple of hardcover books I'd wanted, and this really fancy case for my guitar- one I'd been eying for a while, and then on top of that, this fucking $500 gift certificate to Marshall's Music shop- which was my favorite instrument store, and then another gift certificate to the University bookstore. I mean, that was particularly sweet, because we didn't even know if I'd get in.

And then I open this other box and as a joke he's bought me a new set of boxers."

We smile.

"So, y'know, it was a great day. It had everything- it was a particularly sunny, warm day, my band had played and we sounded great, I saw friends I hadn't seen in a while, and I'm back home with him and everything's pretty perfect, y'know? Ann Arbor is looming, college is looming, we're totally in love. There were like zero negatives on the horizon.

It was late. We went upstairs to bed and we're giggling. He's telling me I'm officially a man now, so we'll have to have more 'manly' sex from now on. And I said 'ya, as opposed to the girly faggot sex we've been having all this time.'

We took turns going down each other's bodies and then he laid me back and it was just majorly passionate. I hung onto the headboard and he went down on me really slow and I came, and then up went my knees- it was kind of my favorite thing, this slow, intense, face to face pummeling. He kept rubbing himself into that inner spot and I came twice in the process. And he finally comes and he was loud. And we fall asleep.

At some point in the night we did it again, but more of the 'super hard and deep' variety, and now it's my turn to wail away. The window's open, there's a warm breeze blowing on us, the crickets are chirping away, and we're sweating and gasping and coming like gangbusters. Y'know, 6 months along, and it's like we're still brand new to each other, it's still fresh and incredibly exciting; we can't stay away from each other.

The irony to me was, here we were surrounded on all sides by married couples, y'know, the supposed ideal, the nuclear family and all that bullshit that everybody's supposed to aspire to, and they can barely stand each other. And they apparently never fuck! There was like zero passion in their lives, because I mean, you would've heard it- the houses weren't all that far apart."

"Either that," I add, "or they did it, but it was routine and lifeless. Nothing that would make you shout."

"Ya, exactly- the opposite of what was happening in our house, but because we're the outcast homos, y'know, _we're_ the freaks, _we're_ the people who have to hide, _we're_ the people who get beat up. It makes me furious still, thinking about it. We were what _they_ should've been trying to emulate ! We were a loving, happy, supportive couple!"

I caress his face. "I know, my sweet."

He looks at me. "Sorry. I get carried away."

"It's okay."

"Where was I ?"

"The sex. Doing it in the middle of the night."

"Right, crickets chirping and shit. So we finish, and we've gone to sleep because we're totally spent. And then it's hours later, like 8am on a Sunday morning, we're completely dead to the world and the fucking doorbell rings.

He scrambles out of bed and throws on his robe, and I'm lazing around half asleep, thinking it's the fucking paper boy.

He opens the door and I hear these voices. Turns out it's the cops."

"Holy fuck."

"Seems a neighbor- guess which one? – complained about the noise, and now they're down in the kitchen asking questions."

"Oh no."

"I stood at the bedroom door and listened; I was at least smart enough not to go down there. And this cop is saying someone has noticed a young boy living here that they suspect is underage. I mean, Michael must have been shaking, and I'm fucking terrified listening to this. Just petrified. My whole entire world, _everything_, is hanging in the balance. And he has no choice but to repeat the same lie he'd been telling people, that I was his nephew, and the cop starts asking why I was here and not with my parents, and he did pretty well. He answered calmly and said they were in the middle of a messy divorce.

And then this other voice speaks up- there were 2 cops, and says we have to ask you something Mr Wilson, and we don't want you to be offended, or take this personally, but the neighbor has alleged something quite serious- that you have been having relations with the boy, including as recently as last night, which was why they were called to the house."

My hand is over my mouth.

"You can't imagine what I was going through listening to this, Brian. I was in a complete state of panic, literally doubled over with my face shoved into a pillow cause I was on the verge of hyperventilating.

And he says to the cop, that is absolutely untrue, and that the neighbor that he's sure must have said these things is someone he's had a property dispute over, and he's sure that was why he would say such things. He said I was only staying with him temporarily, that there had been absolutely no 'relations', and in fact I had my own bedroom, which y'know, was technically true. And the cop says that neither of them believed the allegation, but they had to ask, and he apologizes for even having to bring it up. So I'm thinking, fine, we're cool. Then he asks for my name."

"Christ."

"He says he just needs it for his report, and Michael says, look I don't want him getting pulled into something ugly like this, he's going through enough with the breakup of his family, can we just leave it as it is? And the cop says he understands, but unfortunately he still needs my name. And Michael says are you sure that's absolutely necessary? I don't see why his name has to be mixed up in these false and slanderous allegations. And the cop apologizes and just says again that he understands, but he still needs my name."

"Fuck."

"So Michael says, okay, well, if you must have it, it's Curt, and he spells it wrong- with a K, and he begins spelling the last name, "W-I-L", and I'm like in such a state of panic, he's giving my fucking name right to the police, and then he finishes spelling, and he says "S-O-N". "Wilson"- which of course was _his_ name!"

I laugh. "Brilliant!"

"Well, see, it made sense- if I'm his nephew, right?"

"Of course."

"So I hear the cops get up, and it's all cordial. They apologize to him for bothering him, and they thank him for his time, and leave. So I practically pass out I'm so fucking relieved. It was like the cliche of your entire fucking life flashing before your eyes, and then a second later you're completely safe again.

So he comes straight up the stairs and he's got this extremely freaked and displeased look on his face and he walks right past me and shuts the bedroom window with a slam, and yanks down the shade.

And he doesn't look at me. He starts getting dressed and he tells me to get dressed and come downstairs, so I do. I can see he's in no mood, so I don't dare question it.

I sit at the table and he's pacing back and forth and shaking, which freaked me out. I had thought we were okay, if the cops didn't believe it, then we're in the clear, right? That's what I tell him. And he absolutely snaps at me and says if I believe that I'm a fool. His neck is red and he starts to yell, do you have any idea what is at stake here? Everything! And I said, I'm 18, Michael- I'm not underage!

And he sits down at the table and he chews me out and says, the age of consent in Michigan is _21_, don't I know that? So I have to ask him what the 'age of consent' is- I'd never heard that term. And he says Curt, that means if anyone older than you has sex with you before you turn 21, it's automatic statutory rape.

And I said rape? What the fuck are you talking about? And he explained that in the eyes of the law, statutory rape _is_ rape- they are one and the same, so long as one party is underage, and the other is older- it's automatically, and legally considered rape.

So I said but I was willing! You didn't force me! And he explained that that didn't matter, all that mattered was that I was underage- that is all anyone is going to focus on because that is what qualifies it as rape; force is a moot point.

But again I said, but nobody has any proof of anything! The cops believed you! But he talks right over me. He's ranting. He stands up and he says that's only the half of it. He said homosexuality is illegal in most states, including Michigan. And then he says on top of that, that this would probably be viewed as child rape, or at a minimum, contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

And I'm yelling at him and saying, no one has any proof, Michael! He was scaring the living shit out of me.

And he sat down and he took my hand and he studied my face for a minute. His eyes were incredibly sad. He said Curt, listen to me. I lied to a cop just now. I told him, I've told _everyone_, you're my nephew. It wouldn't take a single speck of digging for him to find out there is no Kurt Wilson, and that I have absolutely no family so you couldn't possibly be my nephew, and if that happens, it's all over.

He said even if the cop somehow didn't find that out, he said to me, I'm a high school teacher and I've been a high school teacher for 10 years; it's all I know how to do. He said my job involves daily contact with teenage boys. If one whiff of this gets back to the school, or to any parent in this entire community, that a teacher they trusted is fucking one of their kids, I'm absolutely finished, do you understand? No school on earth will be willing to take on the scandal or the risk. He said at a minimum, I'll be fired. But what will be much more likely to happen is that I'll be arrested."

His eyes well. I squeeze his hand.

"My gut was just completely twisting up and the tears were streaming down my face. I'm just beside myself. I pleaded with him, 'but the cops believed you, Michael! They apologized!' I was desperately clinging for any breath, for any possible bright spot. And he said, but Curt, we have a neighbor who heard us last night, and every time we fuck, he's going to be calling the police. And I said, but we're moving! And he said if we move now, it will absolutely look like we're trying to skip town. It will be guaranteed to make us look guilty. I said but we were planning on moving anyway! And he just said, but don't you see? They won't believe that.

So I'm sobbing now. My whole entire world is completely caving in. I feel like I'm drowning. I start pleading with him. I said I'll go to the cops, I'll tell them the neighbor was lying, I'll tell them he tried to molest me! I'm just crazily grasping at straws. He stood up and he bent over me and held me, and he whispered that I can't go to the cops- they'll find out who I am, and that I wasn't his nephew. He said that if they found out he'd lied about that, that the investigation would start for sure, because you don't lie if you aren't guilty."

He looks off. His voice cracks with emotion. I grip his hand tightly.

"And I just began to genuinely lose it; I went into this semi-nervous breakdown and started punching him and bawling out of control. I was having these panic flashbacks and mixing up the guy- the neighbor, with my fucking brother, and saying over and over, 'But he molested me!' I think in that moment I actually believed he had. I ended up hyperventilating so bad he had to get the fucking paper bag and hold it over my mouth."

My insides are churning painfully. The water rises in my eyes.

He takes a deep breath. Tears drop onto his cheeks.

I caress his face. "You've told me enough, Curt. Let's go to sleep. You don't need to go on."

He wipes the tears away impatiently.

"Brian, I need to get this out. Please just bear with me that it hurts, okay?"

I push the hair back from his face. "Okay."

He takes a few more deep breaths, and continues.

"So like it wasn't bad enough, then I suddenly have to rip the bag off my face to throw up -in the sink. He's holding me and I'm just sobbing and up-chucking everything into his nice spotless kitchen sink. It was really awful. He washes my face with cold water, and he pretty much carries me up the stairs and lays me down- in _my_ room."

"Oh, god."

His lips quiver.

"And see the significance of this is not lost on me, but I'm so out of it- I'm just so exhausted from panic and despair- I can't even speak. And he goes and gets me a glass of water and some aspirin, only it wasn't aspirin, it was Valium, and I take two, and I pass right out. It was actually exactly what I needed.

When I come to, he's sitting in the chair by the bed, watching me. I'd slept 2 straight hours and he sat there the whole time, didn't make a sound. And he stands up and we look at each other. There was nothing to say, really. I mean, what could we say? He just stood there and touched my face and he's absolutely studying it and looking at it like he's trying to memorize it. He's staring at my mouth, and he runs his thumb back and forth over my lips for like 2 minutes. And the enormity of it all just hits me again, and I start crying and he sits and pulls me to him and just squeezes me inside this huge long emotional hug. We're both crying quietly, and he slides down to lay on the bed facing me and holds me for a really long time, and at some point, it's just so natural for us, so knee jerk, we start kissing- just as a way to comfort each other, these sad, defeated fucking kisses. But then it's Pavlov's, I mean, we had such a drive towards each other that that takes over; it intensifies, and now we're kissing for real, and it's passionate; hungry; we're pawing at each other and mind you, we're both fully clothed here.

He unzips me and loosens my pants and then flips me over to face the wall, and rips them down to my knees and I can hear him scrambling for the lube and I'm thinking, I know what this is. This is the last time. Without question. I knew it like I knew my fucking name."

The tears are spilling. I can't bear to watch it- it's tearing me to shreds. He wipes them away with the back of his hand.

"And my stomach lurches, I'm so despondent and upset at this realization, I'm dizzy- I feel like I need to throw up again, but it's too late- he's already up inside me and it's killing me, it really fucking hurts, but he's got his hands across my hips and I'm like a limp rag doll; he's bending me to fit his body, yanking me straight back against him over and over. It's this awkward sideways spoon thing, and our legs are staggered and mine are twisted up in the pant legs so I'm struggling the whole time and my neck's snapping; it's almost violent, and despite how dead I am emotionally at this point, just absolutely lifeless and empty inside, physically it can't help but connect, and I'm hard, and just as he's starting to come, he jerks me and we finish off."

I kiss his jaw and lay my face in his neck. "Okay. Enough. Enough pain for one day. Let's put this to bed."

He snaps.

"No, Brian! You haven't heard the end! I need to finish this, and only then will it be done!"

I snap back. "But how do you know that ? And in the meantime it's killing you to recount this to me! And it's disturbing, some of it!"

He looks at me. "So what, you only wanna hear about it when the sex is hot and steamy, but not when it gets ugly and mixed up?"

"I didn't bring it up, you did!"

"Bring what up?"

"That he raped you!"

He jumps out of bed, seething, eyes wild.

"Are you FUCKING CRAZY? He DIDN'T RAPE ME!"

"But you said it hurt you, and it felt violent! You said you were struggling and your neck was snapping!"

He's shaking.

"There's always pain with anal! It never bothered me! And I liked it rough sometimes; plenty of times! The thing that made it ugly and fucked up was that there was no life left in us! _None_! Suddenly we were like two dead people fucking each other, taking from each other, compared to 10 hours before when the world was beautiful and the sex was life giving and fucking transcendent- it reflected us! It reflected what we had! Suddenly we had NOTHING! Suddenly we're disconnected ! He got up afterwards and we didn't say a word, we didn't even look at each other!"

I reach tentatively for his hand.

"I'm sorry, Curt. But you have to understand, it just sounded–"

"–I don't care how it sounded! He didn't fucking rape me! I can't stand that you even thought that!"

I inhale deeply and pull him down to sit next to me. I hold his hands.

"I'm sorry. I misunderstood. I didn't mean to make it worse."

I pull him to me. He eventually calms. He doesn't speak for a few minutes.

"No … you weren't there. If I'm completely honest …, I can see why you …" He sits back. "It was mixed up. There were a lot of things going on there. It was frustration and … sheer rage, I think; desperation. It was confusing. It didn't feel loving. And then when it was over, for us to feel so distant from each other made it even more fucked up and painful." He sighs. "But I have to say, I never considered it rape, and, having been through that for real … I guess I still don't."

I caress his hand.

He whispers. "I'm sorry I freaked."

"It's alright."

"I think what it is, Brian …, I mean, the way that you're overprotective of me sometimes, I'm overprotective of him, and his memory. I'm super defensive of it."

"His memory?"

He looks at me.

"He's dead."

My jaw opens.

"Jesus. What on earth happened?"

His head tilts back slightly. He looks at the ceiling as his eyes fill. His nostrils flare. He whispers through a sob.

"Fucking offed himself."

I grab him and hold him as tight as I can. His torso shakes as he weeps.

"Oh my angel, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

We weep together. When he finally speaks, his voice is wobbly.

"He, ah, he had me pack up all my shit, and check into a hotel by myself. Same day the cops had come by. I didn't wanna go but he said we didn't have a choice. He said it could all blow up at any second and I absolutely had to be out of the house if it did, to protect me from getting dragged into the quicksand, just this insane quagmire, potentially having to testify against him, just this fucking sorrowful, unbelievably nightmare.

It was all particularly surreal because … it had just been my fucking 18th birthday! Everything was perfect! I was fucking glowing, I was so blissful. To have it turn upside down in a matter of hours, completely upside down & inside out, it was just sickening. It was literally like the sky was falling. I was walking around like a zombie, totally numb. I couldn't see straight; I couldn't think straight. All I knew was, he was kicking me out of the house. He kept saying he didn't care about himself, all that mattered was what happened to me, that I was kept safe from this, that my future was protected. He promised me if it all blew over, in a couple of weeks he'd come and get me and we'd move straight to Ann Arbor, but I knew he was lying.

He gave me money so I could stay for a while at the hotel, if necessary, and he said he would deposit more into my account the next day. Meanwhile I had to go get the bus by myself. He said he couldn't be seen whisking me away in his car suddenly. It would look too suspicious. So there I am, this pitiful figure, carrying my duffel bag with everything I owned, and my guitar in the other hand, walking down the street, totally stunned, in a daze. He gave me the name of a hotel downtown and I had to call and make a reservation from a pay phone- we couldn't call from the house because it would show up on the phone records and the cops would have a link to me. That's how it was- this rushed, super paranoid last few hours. He said the good thing was, there was no record of me at all in his life, nothing on paper, nothing anyone could trace. I hadn't even been one of his students at school, and no one in the neighborhood knew my name. He said it was a godsend, a lucky thing, that I could just disappear so easily.

I got to the door and he hugged me and he let go too quick, before I had. He was in too much of a panic and a hurry to get me the fuck outta there.

So I rode the bus downtown to this place, and it was basically not much more than a boarding house, which was fine. It seemed safe enough. I showed them my ID to check in and they barely looked at it. You paid by the week, so I paid a week up front. All I cared about is that I had a room with a phone in it, because he was gonna call me that night. I insisted on it, and they made me pay more for it.

I got in and I immediately called my friend Jim and told him the whole story. I just needed to unload, because I felt like my head was gonna explode. I think I was still in a state of shock. I remember telling it to him, and it was almost like I was reading it in the newspaper, like something that was happening to someone else. It didn't seem real.

Afterwards I just stared at the wall. I didn't watch tv, I didn't eat, I just tried to blot it all out. It was one of those times I wanted not to exist. I wanted to extinguish myself. I wanted to be hopeful, I wanted to believe it would all magically go away, but I just knew in my gut it wasn't gonna have a happy ending. I just felt it.

At some point the phone rings, and it's him, calling me from a pay phone. He's sobbing, saying how much he loves me, and how sorry he was that this had happened. He said it was his fault, the whole entire thing. He'd been so unbelievably stupid, he should have seen it coming, he should have been more careful. He asked me if I'd be able to forgive him. I said to him, you didn't do anything wrong, Michael. Just a sudden weird moment of clarity. He said well promise me, whatever happens, you won't blame yourself. That just sent this chill up my spine. It sounded so ominous.

I said, whatever happens, I loved him, more than anyone in the world, and I was terrified I wouldn't see him again. I said I just have this bad feeling, and he said don't worry, things will work out. He said the only thing that mattered to him was my safety, that I would be okay, that I would go to school like we'd discussed. He said he wouldn't stand for me wasting my brains, and while I was at school, there would be boys- and girls, that I'd meet, people my own age … and I almost ripped his motherfucking head off. I was bawling and screaming. I said what the fuck are you talking about? Didn't you just hear me? I wanna be with you! I don't give a shit about people my own age!

He said let's not talk about this. He says it's too upsetting. We can talk about it another time. He said the important thing right now is that I move forward and not let whatever happens drag me down. I'm sobbing into the phone. I said Michael, even if the worst thing happens and we get found out and you go to jail, I'll visit you! You'll still be in my life! And he says 'I'm not going to jail'. Very definitive. I start to talk because, I mean, isn't the fear of arrest the whole reason we're doing this? Why does he sound so confident he's not going to jail?

He just cuts me off and says he has to go. He says the time on the phone's running out. I said I'll call you at the house, I don't care if they trace it! He gets really angry and says listen to me Curt, you are NOT going to call the house. He says if you do, I won't pick up the phone- I'll let it ring. He said we have to protect you from this- that's _the_ most important thing, above everything else. I said then call me back from the pay phone, put more money in, and he said he was out of change. I said go and get some and call me after, and he said he had too much to do at the house. He said, the sooner this was all dealt with, the better. I didn't really understand what the fuck he meant. He said he had to go, the phone was clicking and we would be cut off, and the last thing he said was that he loved me," He chokes out a sob. "and that I was his hero, and not to call or come to the house under any circumstances, and then he said again, 'try not to blame yourself.'"

The tears flow freely. He pushes them away.

"So my head's spinning, I'm sobbing. I'm just so confused and freaked. I just said 'okay'. We hung up and I laid there another 2 hours, going over the conversation in my head, the parts that didn't fit, and all that, talking out loud to myself. At some point I fell asleep.

The next day was Monday. He went to the bank first thing and withdrew 5 thousand dollars from his account, and deposited it into mine. I think the only reason he didn't do more, is because he knew it would go down in some bank accounting record- they started paying attention at 5,001. Then he went to work afterwards, at the school, like any other Monday. I have no way of knowing what his mental state was, what he was thinking, or anything like that. I don't know if he had any hopes that maybe nothing would happen after all. Judging from the phone call, though, it sounded like he knew it would, but then, why did he go into work that morning? Why did he bother? It doesn't make sense. Maybe he had a change of heart overnight, maybe he felt a glimmer of hope, or something. I don't know. But no matter. By 10am he's pulled out of class for a sudden meeting with the principal and vice principal who tell him he's been put on administrative leave pending a police investigation. They said he was free to go.

So … he went straight home, apparently. And … he went upstairs …"

His voice chokes. He takes several deep breaths, and puts his hand to his chest. His face turns red.

I panic. I grab his arm. "Curt, what is it?" He's trembling. He's broken out in a sweat.

"I just … I think I need to lie down."

He turns his body and drops onto the mattress.

"Are you sick? Do you need something? What should I do?"

He whispers weakly.

"Just … hold me."

I lay and wrap him in my arms.

"Please, Curt. Please stop."

"I'm alright."

"Please. You don't need to finish it. I'm begging you."

He takes several deep breaths.

"Brian, I need to put it behind me. And I feel like I have to sort of … honor his memory."

"You've honored his memory. It's been incredibly beautiful."

"But … the end is part of his story. Like we've said … leaving it out is like lying."

I pull back and look at him.

"I don't wanna lie about him."

I brush the tears from his cheeks and whisper tenderly.

"I know, but I'm afraid for what this is doing to you. What it's costing you."

He shakes his head.

"I'm okay. I just need to get this out."

I take his hand and interlace my fingers with his. I'm afraid, I desperately don't want to, but I say it.

"Tell me how you found out."

He swallows. His eyes are emotional. He speaks slowly, stopping repeatedly to breathe, and wipe tears.

"Jim … Jim came to the hotel. I hear a knock on the door and I'm so paranoid I'm afraid it's the cops so I don't move at first. Then he calls my name and I let him in. He had such a spooked, terrified look on his face, I'll never forget it. I feel bad he had to be the one to tell me. I practically jumped down his throat- I knew something had happened and he isn't telling me fast enough. He says there's something really awful, Curt. He says he doesn't know how to even begin to tell me.

I pretty much threw him against the wall. I said tell me you motherfucker or I'll fucking kill you! He looked at me and his eyes were so panicked and freaked. And his mouth opened but nothing came out for a second, and then he just spat out that … the police had been to the house, and they found Michael … up in the bedroom. I said what the fuck are you talking about? What are you saying? He repeats that the police found him. He doesn't wanna tell me … He's hoping maybe I'll figure it out, but I didn't- I couldn't. Then he says, he just blurts it, 'Curt, Michael's dead'.

I reared back and I hit him. I screamed, what are you talking about? No he's not! I just talked to him last night! He grabbed me by the shoulders and looks at me and he says … it was this morning.

I pushed him away and I'm backing up and shaking my head side to side saying, no, no fucking way, no fucking way. I said he was fucking crazy. I was trying to convince myself, I was trying to sound confident but my voice was shaking like nuts. My whole body was shaking.

And he says Curt, listen to me. He said the police contacted the school, and Michael was suspended this morning, and they sent him home.

And I snapped at him, so what? So fucking what if they sent him home? I said I'm calling the house right now, I said I know I'm not supposed to, he'll be really mad, but I have to talk to him. And I walked towards the phone and he stepped in front of me and he looked me dead in the eye and he said Curt, I'm so incredibly sorry … he said … Michael … killed himself this morning."

He stops and covers his face with both hands and sobs for several minutes while I hold him.

"I was just … there were no words for how I felt … just beyond horrified … people use that term all the time, casually, but in that moment I fully understood the meaning of the word horror … Because I instantly knew it was true. I think I knew it the minute he walked in the door. It was just … indescribably awful, indescribably painful and sorrowful and wrenching … just absolute and complete devastation, deep down to my fucking soul. It felt like my brain was bleeding. I went into one of my panic attacks – it was like my chest was caving in, like I was being crushed by a huge jagged bolder and I was instantly suffocating. I needed a bag to breathe into but Jim didn't know this and I couldn't tell him. I pitched forward and plunged my face into a pillow and to him it must have looked like I was trying to suffocate myself."

He wipes the tears with the back of his hand.

"I hate what I put him through. I made him tell me the whole thing, every detail he knew. And then I had this _rage_ at him for making me see it when I would have been safe if he just hadn't come and told me. I would've been able to hide from it."

I caress his face and swallow back the tears. I need to be strong and withstand what he withstood. I whisper.

"Tell me."

He turns himself away and lays on his back to face the ceiling, swallowing, gulping down air, wiping his nose and eyes with the back of his hands. When he finally speaks, it is slow and measured. His voice is distant.

"I've pictured it a thousand times … He parks the car and walks up the walk right next to the motherfucker's house … I always imagine the guy is watching him, and that he turns and runs up the stairs so he can see Michael through the window, like maybe he did when we fucked that last night. I imagine that he's sort of giddy because he knows the mayhem he's wrought, the destruction, and he can't wait to watch it unfold. And ah, … I sort of see it all through his eyes. He looks through the window into Michael's bedroom, into our room …, and there he is sitting down at his grandmother's antique desk … writing out a quick note. He does it methodically, without emotion, like a teacher would … just doing what needs to be done, neat handwriting and all. And then he stands and lays it out on our bed.

And he goes over to the closet and takes something out, but I can't tell what it is at first. He's got something in his hand, and he takes it, whatever it is, and he climbs up onto the foot of the mattress …, and then up onto the footboard, and he's reaching upward for something, towards the ceiling. And then I see what it is finally … he's reaching for one of the exposed ceiling beams … And he throws the thing in his hand over the top of the beam …, and it ah … loops around and comes down over the other side part way … And I see it, and I recognize it as a belt, as two belts actually, that's he's fastened together so they're … long enough, and ah, … secure enough.

He would've put them in place the night before, but he woke up feeling better about the whole thing, for some fucking reason, when he had no business feeling better. It was because he was struck with this momentary vision about us, this ridiculous, unrealistic vision that we were a couple and we were living and breathing like one, and it didn't matter who was around us. We were in our own protective bubble and no one could hurt us, no one could break us.

So, seeing the ridiculousness of that vision finally, and being embarrassed that he'd been so naive and romantic, he reaches up and he turns the belt and ah … makes it into a loop … just wide enough to fit around his ears … and he tests it a few times, tests it for fit, tests the beam to see if it's strong enough, and then he leans his body forward and … his feet let go and he ah … he just … it's all very clean and graceful … he just sorta … jumps forward perfectly …"

* * *

><p>I lean over and hold him, clutching his wet face and burying myself in his neck as the great anguished sobs rack his body. I feel the horror that he feels, the anguish, the suffering, the grief. It is awesome, agonizing, withering. I whisper my reassurances and love and sorrow but I feel so utterly helpless and impotent. I want so desperately to help, to heal him, of this, of his whole history, but how does one recover from things so extraordinarily heinous and unthinkable?<p>

"I'm sorry. It just … hurts … so much, Brian," he whimpers.

My stomach clenches. I hold him close.

"I know, my boy. I'm so sorry." I kiss his wet lips. I cry with him. "I'm so sorry."

There is such fear in his eyes, such pain. I can barely hold myself together.

"Make it go away. Please." His face twists up. He dissolves into sobs.

I can only hold him closer.

"Don't leave me," he pleads.

"I won't, ever. I promise."

The tears flow continuously. His voice is small and raspy.

"Please, Brian."

"I won't. I love you. I'm so sorry. I won't ever leave."

"_Please_."

He has stripped himself so bare, so raw emotionally, he is beside himself with grief and sorrow.

""I'm right here. I love you so much, Curt. I'll stay with you, I won't ever leave, I promise."

I feel a rising anger. Why did he tell me the story? Why wrench it all up again only to be left so fragile and helpless? It doesn't appear to have helped to put it behind him in any way. But mostly my anger is directed at Michael for visiting such a horror on someone so young and vulnerable and needy, someone who loved him this much, someone who didn't need another gruesomely awful experience in his life. I whisper to him. I can't help myself.

"He shouldn't have done it."

To my surprise he immediately agrees.

"I know."

I hold him close. Eventually he calms, and drifts off, completely emotionally spend. I follow suit.

* * *

><p>In the morning I awaken to find him sitting up in bed, smoking, looking off.<p>

I reach for his hand. He silently takes it, and continues smoking and looking off. Nothing is said for long moments. I don't know how he's feeling, and I'm quite nervous about it. Did it make it all worse? Has the mood spilled over into today? Will it be with him for days, possibly until we leave Spain? I want to ask, but it seems like such a flippant question. So how are ya, after slitting yourself open about your boyfriend's suicide?

Eventually he speaks. He turns to me. His face is calm and placid.

"Sorry I flipped out at the end."

I roll on my side towards him and fold his hand toward my chest.

"Oh Curt, please don't apologize. It's completely understandable."

"It just … sorta took me by surprise, how, y'now, fuckin _immediate_ the emotions still are."

I kiss his hand.

"Are you alright, my love?"

"Ya."

He looks at me.

"Are you sorry at all that I told you?"

"No, not if it helped you in any way to deal with it. Do you think … I mean, maybe it's too early to ask, but do you think it did?"

"I think so. I don't know. I could be crazy, but it sorta feels like there's a lot of weight gone from my shoulders this morning."

"Really? That's incredible. Jesus, I'm so relieved. I was afraid it had made it all worse."

"Oh, well recounting it is a horror show, but see, I've only ever ruminated about it in my head all these years. Over and over. I've never actually talked about it to anyone out loud."

"Then you needed to spill it, instead of holding it in. It's healthier."

He grins sarcastically.

"Maybe those shrinks at the mental hospital knew something after all. I used to hear all the time that I needed to 'confess', y'know, about sucking off my brother, as if it was my fault. They said it would relieve my guilt."

"Horrible."

He shrugs.

"Well there was apparently a grain of truth in it, in this case, anyway, because I feel like … I don't know. It's like it opened up a door and the bad spirits have flown away or something."

I caress his hand. "You didn't blame yourself for your brother. Tell me you don't blame yourself for this."

"No, not now, but at the time I did, in a way."

"Why?"

"Because it all started with me mouthing off to the neighbor, and I figured if I had just shut the fuck up, none of it would've happened. But with time, I realized it probably was doomed from the start."

"Like your friend Jim seemed to feel."

"Ya, he had the gift of insight which I was lacking. I was too in the middle of it to see that there was no way we were gonna be able to get away with it. Eventually it was gonna get out there."

"Can I ask you about something?"

He stubs out his cig and slides down to lay facing me.

"Yup."

"I understand why you were in love with him- he was older and had more life experiences and could broaden your horizons in a lot of ways. You looked up to him. Mentor, and all that. I guess what I understand less right now is why he chose to be with someone so young. I mean, no offense, but he sounds like an educated, cultured person. Why did he want a relationship with a teenager?"

He laughs.

"And a troubled one! A dropout! A fuckup!" He sighs. "We talked about it a lot actually. Or rather, he kept bringing it up, saying he knew I must have found him old and all that. He was always saying if I ended up leaving him for someone more my age, he would totally understand. But as far as why he would want to have a relationship with a teenager, I mean, it's not like he started out wanting that. We just sort of fell into it.

He'd been so lonely in his life, Brian, as far as love relationships. He'd had a couple of serious ones which ended badly, and then the fake marriage happened. It was pretty much forced on him, but then he told me he had actually tried to convince himself that maybe it could work, maybe it was what he really needed in his life, maybe he could quote unquote turn himself around and all that shit, ie magically start being straight, and be 'normal' and happy like other people seemed to be, and when it failed, he fell into this huge deep depression for a long time. And it wasn't helped by the every day reality of his life- living a lie and all that, staying in the closet particularly at work; having to lie and cover up all the time- none of his colleagues or his boss could know, none of his neighbors, none of the friends of his family's that he still saw, the whole bit, which just made for a really depressing and lonely existence.

So he gets to the point where he decides he's just gonna be alone, that's how his life's gonna be and there's nothing he can do about it, and that he was just gonna pursue sex when he needed it, and that would be it."

"But to approach you in the way that he did?"

"I think he was sincere in his approach to me, ie the checking up on me and offering me a place to stay after he'd heard I dropped out. Because he was so fucking nurturing, Brian. He had that whole side where he had this craving to look after someone but had never really been given the opportunity. And we had sort of hit it off in music class. He had a young attitude- he wasn't like most teachers who were stuck in their ways- old fogies. And see when you examine it, it was _me_ who kept pushing the issue and prodding him that he must have some ulterior motive other than just offering me a place to stay. And even though he did, I don't think he actually planned to actively pursue it. I think he had this idea that it would be fantastic if it happened naturally, but then when I acted like such a hard case and kept insisting he spill, he sort of figured, well this kid's clearly been around the block, he seems to expect it, so why not ask?"

"Okay. I guess I see better now. Still, it doesn't answer my initial question. Why would a 37 year old cultured man want a 17 year old boy as a companion? Just to relieve the loneliness?"

"Well remember Brian, I was hardly the average 17 year old. I'd lived an awful damn lot in those short years, firstly. Secondly, I can only tell you what he told me, which was that I sort of brought him out of his depression, which had gone on over a year. He said I inspired him. I was this picture of resilience even after all I'd been through. I still found such an intense level of joy in things like music. I made him laugh. We just genuinely hit it off. And he was thrilled to be able to introduce me to things he loved like foreign films and art galleries and the whole bohemian culture in Ann Arbor, which most people in his circle didn't give a shit about. I was an open book compared to the adults he knew. And then for me to fall in love with all that stuff too was just so magical, for both of us. He said many times that before I came along, he felt dead inside, and that I'd brought him back to life. When you look at it that way, where was the harm? What crime did we commit?"

"Well–"

"–Ya, I know. Again, I'm sure in 99.9% of the cases, it's abusive and the kid is taken advantage of and ends up fucked up and greatly diminished. We talked about this before. I can only speak for myself here. I was greatly enriched by it. I was healed of my demons and made whole for a while."

"And there was the sex."

"And there was the sex which was so fucking good. I think it helped fuel the love, and cement it. Which in my opinion is the role sex should serve inside of a relationship. At least, a healthy one."

"So do you see it as entirely healthy?"

He looks at me.

"Okay, I mean, I know given what happened that it must sound anything but, but up til the end, I mean, we were both bettered by it. We were really happy. We were a real couple. We shared everything. We helped each other and supported each other. There was real love and concern and affection between us. He was getting great reviews at work. I was excited about school and doing well in my studies, and for the first time in my entire life I had goals and I was excited about the future- you can't imagine what that felt like to me. I don't know that there are a lot of other measures of what a 'healthy' relationship looks like. I think we fit the bill."

"Which leads me to my next question. What became of you afterwards?"

He sighs and looks off.

"Well, Jim was my savior there. He pretty much saved my life."

"Were you suicidal?"

"Oh, yes. But he stayed with me and forced me to see that doing to myself what Michael had done was wrong."

"He stayed with you?"

"Ya, he literally did- he moved into the hotel room with me and stayed, watched over me, 24 hours a day, all the rest of that summer."

"Wow. Amazing friend."

"Oh ya. He didn't let me out of his sight. He even slept with me. I mean- there was no sex- he was 100% straight, but he stayed with me in my bed, particularly during the first weeks. He held me at night. Incredible, when I think about it now. But I was so broken, I badly needed that. I was just truly a head case. I pretty much went numb, for months. He fed me, he looked after me. He went and got money out of my bank account and paid the hotel bill for me, the whole deal."

"Fuck, incredible."

I squeeze his hand.

"Is it alright if I tell you that I'm kind of furious at Michael for what he did? For doing that to you?"

He inhales and exhales slowly.

"Ya, I understand why you would feel that way. It was certainly completely devastating for me, and took me years to be able to even begin to deal with it. Years. It was about the worst trauma I'd ever fucking been through, which was saying a lot. But Brian, when I reflect on it, and bear with me, because this will sound overly melodramatic, but he really did do it out of this supreme love he had for me."

"How can you possibly say that?"

"Because, think about it! As soon as the cops came by, he _knew_ we were going to get found out! He knew my identity would be discovered and I'd forever be linked to this underage scandal thing, and it would completely blacken my name and ruin my life and I might even have to testify against him so it would all be carried out in public. He cared about me, about my life and my future so much, that the only way he could see around it was to nip it in the bud and remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible, to squash any investigation – _so that I wouldn't get found out _! I think he must have told himself, I was young, I was resilient, I'd get past it, and better yet, meet somebody my own age, and not have my life ruined. That's really what I think happened."

"Okay. I'm still processing this, but okay. Another question, if I may."

"Yep."

"Back to what became of you. You and Jim lived together that summer. Did he leave afterwards? Or did you leave?"

"He left in the fall to start college- his first and only year."

"So you were well enough to be left on your own?"

"I was still traumatized, and pretty numb, but he'd done as much as he could do as far as getting me past the point of offing myself. If he hadn't taken care of me like he did, I'm sure I would have done it."

"So that fall, how did you manage on your own?"

He smiles.

I smile with him. "What?"

"Angela came into my life."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note …<strong>

Okay, if you've made it this far, congratulations. The Curt/teacher story takes up about 100 pages of my original word document, and is some 44,700 odd words long- a bit of a novel in itself.

Initially I hesitated about writing it for obvious reasons however I had made a sort of pact with myself, ie that I was writing for me and nobody else, and that I wasn't going to shy away from subject matter of a weird or disturbing or taboo nature so long as it felt right, made sense, served the story and was at least reasonably realistic.

When I thought about the character of Curt, who had been through such harrowing stuff – molestation, shock treatment, heroin addiction … I saw three things in this guy's future: spells of, or perhaps chronic homelessness; a sexual relationship as a teen with an adult, and rape and/or hustling.

The rape thing I dealt with earlier. Curt ending up broke from a combination of mental instability and accompanying inability to hold a job plus drug addiction would easily lead to homelessness- I don't think that needs much explanation. This guy would have been kicked out of his family home, for sure, and likely very quickly worn out the patience of friends as far as crashing on couches.

The teacher thing though … it just felt absolutely spot on and realistic – I felt I KNEW it was one of the things that would have happened to this guy – a total, inevitable given.

What I didn't want to write was a morality tale- I wanted to go the other direction and see where a huge, scary, massively charged "third rail" topic would take me.

Needless to say this is about one individual fictional character's experience and is in no way a championing of adults going after kids. As Curt says in the story, I'm sure that in 99.9% of those cases, the underaged party is badly, probably irreparably damaged by the experience, it's just that I was dealing with a uniquely damaged individual to begin with, who as he says had lived an awful damned lot by age 17 and really can't be confused with the average kid of that age, so inevitably he would have made up that 0.01%.

As the great Tim Minchin says … maths!

Anyway, thank you for reading and please do comment. The story will get back to Brian and Curt interacting as before, shortly. Promise.

PS: In the nudge/wink department ... In case anyone doesn't realize, and seeing as the character of Curt Wild is based in large part on Michigan's own Iggy Pop, I have given Curt's best friend and band mate - the guy born at the same date and time as Curt and in the same Detroit hospital - the name "Jim Osterberg", because it is Iggy's real name.


	18. It's Innocent, I Think

I laugh.

"Ooooh, Angela! Pretty name. Who was she?"

"She was this arty chick, moved into the hotel that fall, directly across from my room. She was a couple of years older than me, and she went to the art college which was a few blocks away."

"What did she look like? Knockout, I suppose?"

"Well no, actually she was pretty plain. Chicks don't have to be gorgeous for me to fall for them; sometimes it's just a certain quality they possess, like Angela did. She was just sexy as all fuck. She just had this allure about her that drew me in."

"Hmm, do tell. Visuals, please."

"Well, she had short, sort of strawberry blonde hair, big green eyes, a petite face, total pixie look. She was just kind of exotic to me. I'd never seen anybody like her. She dressed weird, wore these berets and shit. She made them. She painted, she sculpted and did pottery, she made really fucking beautiful jewelry, and she made all her own clothes and shit. Total creative type. Smart, too. But it was her tits, mostly."

I burst out laughing.

"The truth comes out!"

"Aww, Brian. She just had the most beautiful fucking pair. I absolutely worshiped them. To this day I've never encountered a more beautiful set. Y'know, because she was sorta plain and had short hair, guys wouldn't look at her twice. They were so fucking stupid. They had no idea what they were missing."

"So how did you meet Miss Angela?"

"We just, we would see each other in the hall, and she would smile at me. I was too fried still, too numb to notice. I never smiled back or spoke to her or anything. I just cut myself off from human contact pretty much completely. I ignored everybody. I cut myself off from my own feelings. I was in my own private safety cocoon.

But one day we happened to be leaving our rooms at the exact same time, and the place had these narrow hallways, so it wasn't like you could walk next to somebody and not be _right_ next to them. It was an old hotel and all. So we walked out of the place side by side, and out of the blue she asked me if I played guitar. And see the irony was, I hadn't picked up my guitar since everything had happened. I just stopped caring. I looked at her and I asked her how she knew, and she said she'd noticed it one time when I had opened my door. It was right by the door.

So I guess I said ya, and we got outside to the sidewalk and I just kept walking. I didn't even feel like talking to another human being. I just wanted to be on my own."

"She must have figured you weren't interested."

"Ya well, it didn't stop her from smiling at me and saying hi and stuff when we were in the hallway the next few times. But I pretty much ignored her. I mean, you have to understand, I was in mourning. And sex was not at all on my brain, not a smidgen. Except to take a piss, I hadn't touched myself at all since before Michael died. I had zero interest. But then like maybe a week later, I happened to be looking out the window of my room, and there she was, coming up the sidewalk, on her way back from class, and that's the first time I noticed her tits."

I laugh.

"Any particular reason? Was it something she was wearing?"

"I think she had a sweater on, but I don't remember it being tight; she didn't usually dress in an obvious way like that. Still, because she was built, she just filled it out nicely, and suddenly it was impossible for me not to notice. Y'know those rorschach tests they give you?"

"Hmm?"

"Okay, well in the hospital they gave us these tests called rorschach, which, y'know, it's a photo of a silhouette, and they ask you what it is, and all you see is a profile of a face, and then they point out that it's actually two candle sticks across from each other, and it only looks like a face, and suddenly you don't see the face anymore, all you can see is the candlesticks."

I nod. "Okay, yes, I've seen it, ya."

"Well, that's what it was with Angela. Before, she was invisible to me. Just some weird girl. Then suddenly, I was blinded by her tits."

We laugh.

"Okay, more visuals. I'm still trying to picture her."

"She wore these mini skirts, like all girls wore back then, and the funny beret on her head. She looked French to me, like I said, exotic. She didn't look like any girl I'd known before."

"So when she was coming in that time, when you first noticed her, did you open up your door and 'accidentally' run into her in the hallway?"

"No, worse. I watched her through the peephole in the door."

We burst out laughing.

"I spied on her for days and days in fact. I'd watch her leave for her class through the peephole, and then I'd jump to the window and follow her path up the sidewalk which went right by my window. And I didn't even know why I was doing this. It was like another Pavlov moment. I just felt drawn to her suddenly, even though I was still emotionally sort of dead. But then on one of those nights, I had a wet dream about her. And that was pretty much it."

"So what finally brought it all about?"

"Well, nothing I did. She was getting her mail out of her box one time when I was coming into the building, and she turned to me and she said hi, and I said hi, and I didn't know what else to say, and she looked at me and said oh by the way, she had mistakenly gotten a piece of my mail, and she had it in her room, and she'd get it for me if I wanted it."

"Wow. A fairly clear message there, no?"

"Well I didn't know at first cuz I was still too fried and shut down, but then I realized, I don't get any mail! It wasn't like I had bills I paid or anything. It wasn't like anyone would have written to me, because no one outside of Jim knew I was there and it wasn't like he ever wrote to me- he'd just pick up the phone and call, or come by. So I looked at her and I just said no, I was fine."

"Dolt!"

"I was nervous! I was unsure of myself and just unstable emotionally and all that still. I was playing it safe. And we walked down the hallway together and didn't say anything, and she opened her door first and I glanced over and she looked at me. And I just remember seeing her bed in the background, over her shoulder, and my cock sort of woke up for like the first time in what felt like a million years. And we looked at each other again, and she reached for my hand and I took it and she pulled me inside."

"Mmm, nice. The shy, nervous, reluctant boy, and the hot to trot pixie girl who won't let him say no. Do tell."

"Well, she shut the door and she leaned against it and I just felt this surge go through me. Like, desire. We kissed and she had the most amazing soft lips. I'd forgotten what it was like to kiss a soft face with no stubble, y'know? It was really nice. But I had to get my hands on these tits, y'see."

We laugh.

"So we're kissing, and I start unbuttoning her blouse, and then she's helping me do it, which blew my mind. So it's quickly coming off and I about lost it right there. She was the first girl I'd ever been with who wore like sexy bras and shit. Low cut, satiny, lacy stuff, sheer stuff. And different colors, not fucking boring white. I remember the one that day was pink. I mean, to see that for the first time when you aren't expecting it, in the flesh- not in a magazine was just … phew! Every girl I'd been with to that point wore what most girls wore then- these ugly overly-constructed plain white bras that might as well have been their mother's. They were like nun's bras, just anything but sexy. But I'd never cared before because it was just going to get peeled off anyway, right? What you wanted was _underneath_. But with Angela, the _journey_ to underneath was like just as delicious."

"Fabulous."

"Ya. I think my eyes must have been bulging out of the sockets. Suddenly I didn't wanna unsnap it and throw it down on the floor like I would have in the past- it wasn't a barrier to what I wanted. I wanted to explore it and touch it and stuff. Plus she had the most amazing fucking cleavage. She had such a killer build, and in a low cut bra, her cleavage just _popped_. I was just totally mesmerized by it. I just remember kissing it, and her flesh was SO fucking smooth and soft- the softest skin I'd ever felt in my life.

Anyway, it didn't take long. She pulled me down over her on the bed and I slid up her skirt and we fucked with our clothes on. Her pussy was so soft and tight and wet it was absolutely fantastic- I'd completely forgotten what it felt like. I think I probably came in under a minute, which I was totally embarrassed about. Just mortified. But it had been so fucking long for me, there was just no way I could last.

I blurted out an apology, I mean, what can you say in that situation? I figured I had killed any interest she might have had in me, but she just kissed me again, and it got heated and then I moved down her neck and went right for her tits again."

We laugh.

"What I hadn't noticed was that her bra had a clip on the front which you could just snap and it would come undone from the front instead of the back. Ingenious! I'd never seen that before. So she unclipped it and I pulled back the cups and there was like nirvana, right in my face."

More laughter.

"Just, y'know, the most spectacular tits I'd ever seen in my life. Like total first place prizewinners, the most perfect size and shape, firm and silky; flawless skin that again, was ridiculously soft, beautiful pink perky nipples. I was losing my fucking mind. Drove me fucking nuts.

Needless to say I got hard again almost immediately and we fucked a second time. I went slower though; I was determined not to come as quick, and also cuz I didn't wanna hurry it- I wanted to spend more time with these magical tits."

"So, it sounds like cock got thrown over for pussy pretty easily."

"Well, y'know how it is Brian. You've had both. For me at that time, I don't think I would have wanted to be with a guy, because the whole time I would have been picturing Michael and comparing the guy to Michael. Being with a girl was easy because it didn't remind me. Plus, I mean, it was just nice to get back to fucking."

"Ya, after what, 2 or 3 months without?"

"No, I'm talking _fucking_, being the active party instead of being the fuckee."

"I don't follow."

"Brian, I was the catcher the whole time with Michael. I never pitched."

"Huh?"

"Sorry. American sports analogy. Let me rephrase that. I never actually fucked Michael, ie went up his ass. I was too busy being the full time bottom."

"You're kidding! Not once in all that time?"

"No. But bear in mind I was having bucketloads of sex, so who was I to argue or complain?"

"But I still find this amazing! Knowing you! You didn't miss it?"

"Not when my dick was either being stroked, sucked, or strapped every single day."

"Strapped?"

"I mean … it's not what it sounds like. That's the term we used for the silk blowjob- the satin strap thing."

"Okay, ya I get it. But so, with Angela, you rediscovered the joys?"

"Ya, it was funny. Right in the first moments I realized how much I'd missed the feeling of swinging my hips!"

We laugh.

"And no lube."

"Right! Oh man! No lube! No fucking lube! Hallefuckinglujah! No more having to constantly be aware of the location of the fucking tube. No stopping to reach into a drawer, or fumble for it in the dark, or worse, getting up to go find it, and it's in another room, and ice cold. Fuck! Major, _serious_ advantage of pussy over cock. That, and the fact that you don't have to stretch a girl out in order to fuck her- her hole's always ready! Plus, and most importantly, Angela was a bottom, so she brought the top out in me, too."

I grin. "Thankfully."

"Well, also, I mean, she had no dick to fuck me with. So I just naturally slipped into that role, and she was quite happy to lay back and let me. The best thing though, was that she matched me for interest in sex. She loved it. She was the second person in a row who had a healthy attitude towards it and were unapologetic about it. It's the kind of thing you maybe expect in a guy, but at that time at least, I didn't know many girls who were like that."

"So what was the sex like?"

"It was, y'know, great. Nothing too edgy or crazy, nothing much on the mental side like what Michael and I had gotten up to, it was more meat and potatoes stuff, but still, I wasn't complaining. Some of the best stuff was when she would ride me. Just having those fantastic nipples hanging in my face, I mean … phew!"

"Jesus, you were tit focused."

"Most definitely. I remember one time she'd knitted this bikini top for herself that would tie in the front, y'see, and she was on top and she leaned over my face and as I got closer and closer to coming she'd loosen it more and more- y'know, as a visual aid, so that more and more of her cleavage would show, and then when I was just about to come she pulled the cord and her tits fell in my face."

"Holy fucking shit. So this is where you got your tit fetish."

"Ya, talk about a trigger! You can see how easy it was for me to directly associate them with orgasm."

We laugh.

"Ingenious!"

"But y'know, when I think about it now, I see that it was a healing thing mostly. I mean, oral stuff is primal, right? And you don't get more basic and primal than sucking on tits. It's what whole species' do for survival. There isn't anything that's more _literally_ nurturing than that. And with me the way I was, after what I'd been through, I, y'know, needed care and nurturing more than anything."

My heart melts. I grab his hand.

"Poor lovely boy."

"Did you know, I used to constantly fall sleep in her cleavage?"

"Hmm?"

"It would put me to sleep, I swear to god. The first time it happened, we'd just fucked. We laid on our sides facing each other and I put my face in there, intending to kiss it, and like 5 seconds later I was out cold."

"Jesus."

"And it happened all the time! It was like a fucking drug, I swear to god. And when it would happen, I would end up spending half the night there. We would both fall asleep and she'd wake up sometime later and I'd still be there and she'd tell me she didn't have the heart to move me."

"How lovely."

"It makes sense, though. Here was this soft, warm place where you were sorta protected, free from your troubles, hidden from the world, and you probably felt loved too."

"Like a baby."

"No getting around it- like a baby."

"So I have to ask, did your mother nurse you?"

He waves a dismissive hand.

"No. Fuck no. We were trailer trash. Those women didn't breastfeed their kids. One of them even spiked the bottle with rum. Even if they had, though, she wouldn't have. She wasn't the most nurturing person." He winces. "Jesus, I don't wanna think about her. Ask me another question. Ask me a fuck question."

"Okay, well, um … did you not get up to any kink at all?"

"Not really. Like I said, meat and potatoes. I think maybe the wildest thing we did was 69."

"Hmmm. Okay."

"I'd never done that before. She initiated it. I was laying back on her bed and she was blowing me- she had an amazing mouth, and suddenly she begins changing position and moving herself up towards me, never dropping my dick mind you."

"Bloody hell. Talented."

"And there she is above my face, so I mean, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed her hips and pulled her down, I mean, I had some experience with upside down oral, so …"

We grin.

"But I found out I didn't really like it all that much."

"What, you mean going down on her?"

"No, fuck no. I was serious into eating pussy. It was the 69 thing that left me sort of cold. I mean, the _idea_ of it of course, y'know, it's so dirty sounding and when you're that age especially, you totally wanna try it. But what I discovered was that um, when my dick's being sucked, I can't really concentrate on anything else, y'know? I couldn't eat her properly and be bowled over by her scent and all that. Not only are you completely distracted, but it's just awkward from that angle and it forced you to do a half assed job. When I went down on her, I wanted the whole package because it was so fucking amazing. It drove me nuts looking up and watching her squeal and writhe around on the bed."

"So did you just stop? Did you tell her it wasn't working for you?"

"It was too late. I'd already come."

We laugh.

"So I just diplomatically suggested that she lay back so I could keep at her, and she did. I didn't really ever directly tell her, but I think she got the drift. We never did it again."

"Okay, next sex question: how often ?"

"Um, pretty fucking frequent. It was a rare day when we didn't do it. We were young, man."

"Where on earth did she find time for her studies?"

"She would go at the library." He smiles. "No temptations."

"So were you a couple?"

"Um, well, not with any intensity. Nothing that approached what it had been with Michael, certainly. We hung out. We got along. We liked each other. I mean, in truth, I really dug her a lot."

"Did you never take her out, stuff like that?"

"I think we went to the movies once, but overall, no. I was still sort of in my cocoon pretty much. I would do stuff like walk her to class."

"Aww! Did you hold her books too?"

"Fuck off."

"Okay, another question?"

He feigns annoyance.

"Will this interrogation never end?"

"Shut up. This one's important. I want you to be entirely honest with me about it."

"Okay, jesus, well fuck, it's not like I've been lying to ya all this time."

"I know, I know, but this one's a bit more personal to me." I sigh. "Curt, when I hear you talk about the attributes of women's bodies, tits and wet pussies and all that, I can't help but think that you actually prefer women."

"Well, I don't 'prefer' either one, Brian, I like them both. Just like you."

"No, Mandy's cured me of women. I really believe that. I never look at them anymore. I never notice them. Not for a while now. I'm sorry to put you on the spot like this, I really am. Maybe I'm just insecure, but I swear, every time you talk about tits your whole face lights up. I've wondered more than once if when you're with me, you miss them."

"What are you talking about! You've got DICK!"

"Does that really trump tits though? If you were given the choice between an equally appealing man and woman, would you go to the woman?"

"Brian, let me ask _you_ a question. How many times have I come because of you, and how many times have I made you come since we've been together?"

"Ya, I know, but …"

"But to answer your question with complete honesty, like you've asked me to, I'd take them both home. Both have their merits in bed. I refuse to choose."

I sigh in frustration.

He cups my face.

"Brian, listen to me: you have _nothing_ to be insecure about. You're an absolute knockout, first of all. You've got eyes and lips and skin from god. You've got a beautiful body, an amazing tight ass that makes me shoot a fucking mile, and a dick I could suck day every single day of my life."

I giggle. "Stop with the romantic talk, already."

He intertwines his fingers in mine.

"I'm not interested in anyone else, male or female, do you understand? I'm in love with _you_."

My heart puddles up. My eyes well.

We kiss softly.

"Now, any more questions or can we put this to rest?"

"Just a couple."

He turns his head away and groans.

"Just a couple! How long were you together?"

"I don't know, Brian … maybe 3 or 4 months. Not long."

"What happened?"

"Um, well, it was my fault. I was thinking, this is nice, this is fun and casual, I can handle this. It's light and airy. It didn't make me forget about Michael, but it was a nice distraction from thinking about him and feeling awful all the time. Little did I know though, how she'd begun to feel. One day it slipped out; she told me she loved me, and I sorta freaked. To this day I feel bad about it."

"What did you do?"

"I just … froze up. Huge motherfucking alarm bells going off in my head- I was petrified of putting myself at risk again. I needed it to stay casual; I simply could not handle anything else at that point, which, y'know, wasn't fair to her. I mean, it wasn't her fault I'd been through a nightmare."

"Did she know?"

"Fuck no. I kept that all to myself. Neat and tidy and locked away."

"So what did you say to her when she told you?"

"I just … I think I was literally so stunned, I said nothing. I didn't respond. I mean, she wasn't stupid. She could totally see it on my face that it wasn't welcome news. And I think she was so hurt by it that she just sort of withdrew. She must have figured I didn't care about her, which wasn't the case. It was really sad, because I liked her so much. She was one of the very few girls I've been with, to this day, that wasn't a skank or a mental case- the type I always seem to attract. We were actually a really good fit. It was just the timing. If it had been a year before, or maybe a year after, we might still, y'know, even be together."

My heart swells. The ever present romantic streak even amongst all the fuck-talk.

"And I can't help but think …, maybe if I'd been capable of feeling love at that point, if I wasn't so fucking _damaged_, maybe I wouldn't have gone down the bad roads I went down afterwards- smack and all that."

I kiss his hand.

"I'm sorry."

He sighs.

"It was just really a sad year for me overall."

I reach for him. We hug in silence for long moments. I kiss his neck and whisper.

"Okay, enough. Let's get outside already. Fresh air."

"No more chatter for the rest of the day."

"Right. Total and utter silence."

We part and look at each other, grinning. We kiss quickly.

"One thing though."

"What?"

"All these images … I'm sorry, but I'm hard as a fucking rock."

He reaches for the blanket, laughing.

"Really? Let me see!"

"No! Not before the wedding, Curt!"

He pulls it back.

"Jesus Christ." He observes the form straining against my knickers. He appears to gulp. "Fuck, it feels like months since I've seen your dick, do you know that?"

I clear my throat. "Umm, Curt …" He looks at me. My eyes drop, and he follows them to his own crotch.

"Wow, will you look at that! I hadn't even realized!" He looks up at me, eyes playful. "Brian, we've got ourselves a couple of gen-you-wine boners here!"

We burst out laughing.

"Well no wonder, with all this talk about your sex life."

He puts a finger to his lip and raises his eyes to the ceiling.

"Hmm, and I WONDER who's been asking me about it? And _asking_?"

I laugh.

"Fuck off! Deny me this long and I'm gonna make you talk! And then you won't even let me beat off!"

We laugh.

He stops suddenly.

"Okay, well I'll make you a deal: we'll both get in the shower right now and you'll beat off and I'll watch."

I snicker. "Ya! Good idea!"

"Come on! I'm serious! I won't touch you! I won't touch myself, so it won't be cheating. I promise! I'll be too busy dousing my dick."

I look at him and begin climbing off the bed. "Sorry, too risky. I'm off to ice myself."

He stops me.

"Well, what if we ice ourselves at the same time, then? Definitely not cheating."

I look at him suspicious.

"Why?"

He reaches for my hand and takes it tenderly.

"Um, I don't know. I just sorta miss the sight of your cock, Brian. Honestly. I mean, I know I can't have it right now, but not seeing it, especially when you're hard …"

My heart melts.

"That's very lovely, Curt, but don't you think we'd be creeping dangerously close to the line?"

"Not if we don't touch. Seeing isn't fucking, right? It's innocent, I think."

The corners of my mouth begin slowly moving, mirroring his.


	19. Beautiful and Bright and Clear

I feel an electric charge going up my arm as we walk hand in hand to the bathroom. Apparently my body thinks we're heading off to fuck, and what he does next doesn't convince it otherwise: He raises his arms and begins pulling up his shirt from the back.

I stop him.

"Let me."

He drops his arms.

"Umm, okay, well is that really a good idea?"

"Like we said, no touching, just visuals. And we're gonna ice ourselves anyway."

"Just look, then."

"Ya."

He raises his arms up again and I pull at his collar, at the material that rests over those beautiful smooth muscular shoulders, and slowly slide it up, taking in the eyeball-load that is those naked pecs, beautiful bare nipples, and that bloody perfect flat stomach. For dessert, that lovely mane of sandy hair has, as always, fallen in a scrumptiously messy pile atop his head.

My cock twitches terribly. I drop the shirt on the floor and go to slip a fingertip inside the waistband.

"Now these."

He laughs and jumps away.

"Not a chance, pal." He slides them down himself. His cock bobs forward from behind the material, thick, fully flushed. My mouth literally waters.

He approaches. He doesn't notice that my eyes have crossed. I raise my arms and he pulls up my shirt. Then in the next split second, before I have a chance to realize it, he's slid my unders down my legs. The line his fingers have traced along my hips and thighs is slow-burning.

I jerk back. He's laughing.

"Bastard! Not fucking fair!"

He's eyeing me and giggling still.

"_Now_ you're fucking hard!"

I grab for his hand and yank him into the shower. I turn the water on the coldest setting, pull the shower head off it's holder, and point it at myself. I feel a gasp rise from my throat, but I swallow it, determined to brazen it out in front of him.

I speak through gritted teeth.

"Not anymore."

"Aww, Brian. Why did you have to go and ruin it right away? You couldn't give me at least a minute to stare at it and drool?"

"Nope."

"I'm serious."

"Sorry."

My cock quickly shrivels up and shrinks. For good measure I keep the spray on it, at full force, an extra minute or so.

He eyes the whole process, suddenly seeming uneasy.

"Jesus, you don't have to drown it, ya know."

I take his hand and drop quickly to my knees before him.

He jerks back but I yank on his hand.

"Jesus, Brian, what are you doing?"

I grin.

"I just want a closeup view of when your dick drops."

I've got the sprayer but I find myself hesitating over the heartstoppingly beautiful sight that is Curt's hardness, up close. The rich deep color, the beautiful rounded head flaring out like a rare, exotic mushroom. I know it well, every centimeter, every sweet spot, ever pore. I know the aroma, the exact texture and weight and temperature and feel of him sliding past my lips, up my tongue. Why does it seem like years since I've tasted him ? Since I've twisted my fingers into that ever-alluring honey colored thatch of curls, crowning it all?

I whisper absently.

"Do you have any clue how exceedingly suckable you are?"

"Stop it."

"When is the last time I did that?"

He pulls away, but I hold his hand tight.

"Brian, quit it!"

"Wait, don't move, please." I look up at him. "Curt, I promise you, no joke, I'm NOT going to touch you. I swear to god."

He stops. He speaks impatiently.

"Just spray me for chrissake!"

"In a minute. Close your eyes."

"Quit it, Brian! I'm NOT fucking closing my eyes!"

"Just do it! Just for a second. I said I won't touch you, didn't I? I won't! Don't you trust me?"

He stops.

"Yes, I fucking trust you, but–."

"I won't, Curt. I promise you. Please."

He fidgets.

"Hold still and shut your bloody eyes."

He sighs.

"Okay, but no more of this goddam looking business. It's too fucking treacherous."

I spy his now entirely swollen cock.

"I agree."

He complies.

I lean close, momentarily taking in his intoxicating scent before opening my mouth as wide as it can go, and positioning it over and around the beautiful plump head, being exceedingly careful not to brush it with my lips or tongue. I then exhale softly.

I don't so much see or hear, as _sense_ the shudder passing through him.

Needless to say, it takes absolutely every last _possible_ bit of will power and self discipline to not close the deal here. Instead I exhale once more, just for added torment (his and mine), before pulling back, and am rewarded with the insanely sexy sight of pre-come oozing from the eye- signifying that he is literally on the verge of orgasm.

My balls quiver. It's all I can do to keep myself from devouring him whole, in a single smooth gulp.

Instead I turn the nozzle towards myself, clear my throat, and speak as nonchalantly as I can.

"That's it."

His eyes remain shut.

He swallows hard and whispers gravelly, unsteadily.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

I smile.

"Yes." I stand. "Open your eyes."

He does.

We stare at each other with heavy lids.

"How was that?" I ask, with a lopsided grin.

He speaks wearily. He holds out 2 fingers.

"How was that? I am _this close_ to fucking creaming you right now, Brian."

My cock jolts.

He shakes his head slowly.

"Just wait. You are SO gonna get it on our honeymoon."

A cold shiver passes through me.

"Wedding night", I whisper weakly.

He looks down at the nozzle.

"You'd better turn that thing on me soon, or we'll both we in trouble."

I stick a finger into the spray.

"It's icy cold."

"I know." He sighs. "I'm afraid it's necessary right now, but it'll be worth it in the long run."

I kiss him quickly.

"Definitely."

He takes the nozzle and squeezes my hand hard as it makes contact. He grimaces and wails out a long groan.

When we are both shriveled and shivering, I hook the shower head back up and turn the water on hot. We stand beneath the spray to warm up, looking at each other.

"It just shows you how much I love you that I held back. It was almost literally impossible to do that, y'know."

He grins.

"Wasn't too fucking easy for me, either."

I grin with him.

"We're stronger than our mere desires."

"Our silly primal urges."

We giggle.

"We're not apes."

"We're just two horned-out men with hard-ons."

We giggle further.

"Not anymore."

"Nope. I have no desire for you at all, in fact."

"Oh god, me either."

Suddenly, he's staring at my mouth. He takes my hand and speaks shakily.

"Nothing I could do right now could make me hard, right? Not after that onslaught?"

I gulp.

"Um, I don't think so. Not in my limited experience with ice water, anyway."

He grins.

"Then we can kiss. For real. None of this pansyass shit."

I laugh. He's animated.

"I don't think that's cheating, either. Do you?"

"Um, no."

"Kissing isn't sex, right?"

I grin.

"Right."

"No hands, though. We have to keep our hands away."

He moves close and whispers.

"Get yours behind your back, Brian."

I sway on my feet momentarily.

"Umm, no talk, Curt. It makes me crazy. Too close to the bloody line."

"Like you breathing on my cock just now?"

"Jesus, Curt. Come on, I'm serious. No talk."

He laughs.

"Okay. Kiss. We kiss, though."

"Yes. Hurry up, before the spray wears off."

"Oh, that will take a while, my friend."

I grin huge.

"Yes, it will."

"No hands- remember. Just lips."

"Tongues?"

He hovers close.

"Definitely."

* * *

><p>I slip my hands behind my back, for good measure, as our mouthes meet and lips slide and rub slowly, our faces softly turning, and then writhing as our tongues circle and dance and dart, as we make each other wetter and wetter. Repeat. Again. Again. Again. The suction gradually tightens, the pace gradually intensifies, until we are panting and biting each other, moaning, struggling, tongue fucking, all while our arms and hands remain stiff, rigid, down and away, out of danger, other than the dozen or so times that Curt's begin to leave his side, only to snap back down.<p>

It's strange. Other than the times I couldn't because I was restrained, I've never frenched someone, certainly not with this level of passion, without touching them. It forces every ounce of your desire and lust to be focused and funnelled to the mouth, and the kiss quickly becomes crazily overheated as a result.

Stranger still, I've never become so insanely aroused before without benefit of erection. You can't have one without the other. Ordinarily. Sex with Curt, though, is never ordinary. Yes. This is definitely sex; there can be no question … but I'm not about to tell him.

For a while, though, I'm fine. It's not until he begins treating my tongue like a cock, licking and stroking and circling it, drawing it gently but firmly into his mouth, taking it between his lips, carefully between his teeth, focusing on the more sensitive/vulnerable spots … and then sucking, that my balls start to tingle in earnest.

It is at this precise moment that he jerks back suddenly, gasping.

"Sorry." He pants. "I-I gotta stop." He looks down. "It's .. beginning to fucking get to me."

He looks at me, lids extremely heavy, voice husky/gaspy, chest heaving.

"You're absolutely fucking amazing, d'you know that?"

I whisper.

"I was about to say the same thing."

We kiss softly.

"I'd better go get some fucking clothes on, before I get any ideas."

He turns away. I yank on his hand and swing him back around.

"What about _my_ ideas?"

I grasp his face with both hands and plow into his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, grazing his tongue, before he jerks himself away with a closed-eyed gentle laugh.

It's so exquisitely lovely and sweet, the sight of him, naked and vulnerable, sopping wet, at the end of his tether, having been caught off guard, that I laugh with him.

"What?"

"It's just … it's just that … I mean you have to admit … we're doing an awfully fucking bad job, Brian," the laugh snorts out of him, "of not cheating."

He continues.

"I mean, we somehow go from this innocent little hug, directly to this almost violent deep french kissing–"

I dissolve into giggles.

"–While naked in the shower!"

We double over laughing.

"But we're trying, Curt! And really, we haven't fucked, so I think, considering everything …"

"The fact that we sleep in the same bed–"

"–Talk literally nonstop about sex–"

"–And beating off–."

"–And icing our dicks,"

We grin at eachother.

"I think we're actually doing pretty bloody well!"

We kiss quickly. He whispers.

"I do too."

We exit the shower, hand in hand.

* * *

><p>Finally, after a day and a half at the house, we're out the door, with our maps and backpacks, determined to scale Es Vedrà and it's volcano. Curt is especially eager to see it, after learning that is is purported to be the 3rd most magnetic spot on earth, after the north and south poles.<p>

"All that magnetism, y'know? Maybe we'll come away from it glowing in the fucking dark!"

The second reason for his excitement is because it is thought to be one of the Siren islands mentioned in Homer's Ulysses, one of his all time favorite books, in no small part because Michael turned him on to it.

The weather is perfect, mild and sunny as we walk the 4 blocks along the coast, in the opposite direction of town, in order to reach the island's only fishing pier. My plan is to approach a friendly looking fisherman and simply ask for a lift to the island, which stands 2-3 kilometers into the ocean, and if he balks, offer him money.

"This guy has to pick us up, too?"

"Ya, it's too far to swim back."

"Then he'll need an incentive to remember to come get us- maybe you should offer him money up front."

"You have to be careful how you approach it, Curt. You don't want to insult them by offering a bribe. I knew someone who once road a motorbike across Russia and he said the thing to do when you talk to the border guards is to say, 'is there a fee'? And nod your head like you're expecting it. You never just offer them money."

"Jesus, you really are so much more worldly than I am, Brian. And to fucking speak fluent Spanish, too. You blow me away."

"It's a beautiful language."

"Ya, I can't believe I haven't made you say shit to me in Spanish when we're in bed."

I turn to him and grasp his hand.

"Como te quiero enojado?"

"Meaning?"

"Like, 'I love you madly'?"

The smiles spreads across his face, splitting it in two. He repeats the phrase back to me, stumbling through it.

"Como …"

"te Quiero."

"'Quiero'- that sounds like 'queer', how fitting. What does it mean?"

"Love."

"Are you kidding me? The word that sounds like 'queer' means 'love'? I can't believe it! I gotta fucking learn Spanish, man!"

He tries again.

"Como te …"

"Quiero."

"Quiero. Como te quiero."

He grins huge, repeating the phrase several times to himself until he gets it right.

We arrive at the pier. It's a bit more industrial than I remembered and of course, reeks of fish. I look round. Who to approach? The men are in twos, busily repairing their nets or checking their boats or otherwise engaged in general fishermanly activities, for which I have no name.

I lean back. "Who do you think?"

Curt squints and peers about.

"I don't know. What about the guy over there in the blue shirt? He doesn't look like he's doing anything. Maybe I can bum a smoke off him."

We approach.

I introduce us as great admirers of the island who wish to visit the volcano, and as politely as possible, ask if he might happen to be heading in that direction.

As best as I can tell through the cloud of smoke in front of him, the man snickers. I hold up a hand to Curt to warn him not to react. We want to remain on friendly terms with the person who has to pick us up before nightfall.

The man puts his hand to his mouth and calls over to an older man who is tending his net, asking him when he's due to head by 'the rock'.

The older man calls us over and in contrast, is thankfully quite animated and friendly. He asks if we're been visiting long and discusses the myths surrounding 'the rock' and happily agrees to take us there.

I turn to Curt, who stares blankly, dumbfounded by the strange words which are spoken, to his ears, one hundred miles an hour.

"He's okay with it. He'll take us right there. We're lucky. Very nice man."

I turn to the man, whose introduces himself as Manuel, and in turn, introduce myself and Curt, leaving our last names off. Thankfully, there is no sign of recognition, but then, I don't know how many circa 60 year old Spanish fisherman listen to glam rock.

* * *

><p>And we're off, sailing aboard what I would describe as a rather rickety looking combination of a dingy and a small, fishy smelling tugboat.<p>

During the ride I sit as still as possible, in an attempt to counteract the effects of the swaying and rocking, which is beginning to impact my stomach. Curt however, having never been on a boat in his life, immediately and excitedly places himself directly at the apex of the boat's bow, "like a fucking hood ornament", he giddily exclaims. I watch him as I converse with Manuel, about Es Vedrà's general terrain, the dormant volcano, the island's role in Greek mythical culture, and to my delight, the approximate location of what I had heretofore been unaware of, a hidden waterfall.

"Es muy romántico."

I grin. To my right Curt is hanging onto the post at the tip of the bow, eyes closed, face peaceful, looking serenely beautiful, the warm wind tossing his hair about.

"La vez próxima usted puede ser que desee traer a su esposa."

("Next time, you might want to bring your wife.")

I wince, startled out of my reverie. How I love to pretend, just for these two precious weeks, that she doesn't exist. I stutter in Spanish that she and I have been here before.

He asks, and she had no interest in returning?

I reply that that is correct- no interest. My stomach is having a hard enough time with the pitch and roll of the boat, and now we're fucking discussing Mandy. Thankfully Curt is oblivious.

The man presses on, saying, your wife has no interest in returning to such a beautiful and romantic place?

Ugh, just that phrase, 'your wife'. I reply that that is the case. I just want him to shut up.

The man takes a drag on his miniature cigar, grins sly, and actually winks at me.

"Pienso a sir que usted tiene quizá un amigo especial en Ibiza."

("I think sir that you maybe have a special friend in Ibiza.")

The smile that spreads clear across my face wordlessly tells him that I do. We share a hearty laugh.

"Una belleza, me imaginaría."

("A beauty, I would imagine.")

I grin and look over at Curt.

"Si, definitivamente."

("Yes, definitely.")

* * *

><p>Manuel carefully deposits us at the edge of a small beach, with promises of returning in 3 hours. He refuses my polite offers of compensation at least for his petrol, and immediately begins puttering onward past the island.<p>

Curt runs up the beach laughing demonically.

"Woo HOO, man! Our own fucking island! All to ourselves! Our own volcano and shit! Let's GO!"

I'm clutching my stomach. I deposit my back end onto a rock and lean forward, willing the nausea to pass.

He's immediately by my side.

"Brian, what is it?"

"I'm alright. Just give me a minute. Bloody boat wouldn't stop pitching."

He removes the bottled water from his backpack and hands it to me.

"Ya, I know. It was a motherfucker, wasn't it?"

I look at him.

"You don't seem effected by it at all."

He shrugs. "I guess I was too preoccupied smelling the fresh salt air and waiting for a dolphins to pop up in front of me or something. Totally mind blowing being on a little dingy in the middle of all that blue." He grins. "Or maybe it's just that heroin has given me a good, strong constitution after all."

"Very funny."

After a couple of minutes, the nausea passes, and we're off.

I consult my map and we begin scaling the winding, near vertical path, myself, much slower than Curt, who in his excitement is charging ahead as if he did this every day.

On the way we pass a string of amazing arid vines from which hang wild, incredibly juicy red grapes, whole batches of which we consume, tucking the rest into our backpacks for later. The greenery is quite dense at points and we have to duck our heads to get around it, or use our arms as makeshift machetes. The smell in the air is like a mix of salt and what smells to me like some sort of spice- sage, or basil maybe.

"So I've never read Homer. What is the tale of the Sirens?"

"Okay, first thing when we get back, you're fucking reading The fucking Odyssey. I can't believe someone as learned as you hasn't read that, or the Iliad, either?"

"No."

"Fuck, you don't know what you're missing. Okay, the legend of the Sirens is that these nymph chicks- not the same meaning as we have today for 'nymph', by the way, they would appear by these ships and seduce the sailors with their songs into jumping overboard and dying. This knockout redhead sorceress chick named Circe told Ulysses the secret to avoiding the seduction: she said he had to bind himself to the ship's mast, which is kind of hot when you think about it, and that his men had to fill their ears with wax so they couldn't hear the song. So on the way, he hears this irresistible, incredibly sexy song and he demands to be unbound, but his men know to not listen to him- he'd warned them, so they end up passing the islands safely without anybody chucking themselves in."

"Fascinating. So who is this Circe girl?"

"Oh, she's fucking awesome. She turns people she doesn't like into animals."

"Wow, okay."

"Like, pigs, and shit. Her and Ulysses were lovers."

"Hmm. So she never turned him into a pig, presumably."

"No. They had 3 sons together. One of them accidently killed Ulysses later on."

"The Greeks never lacked for drama."

"Nope. One of my all time favorite books. A coupla times I tried to write a song about it but it was too fucking complex. Plus the names Ulysses and Circe are impossible to rhyme with."

We laugh.

I look ahead of him. "Okay, round that bend up there, that's the final ascent to the volcano. And just before that, look to your right. There will be an incredible view from there …"

I stop myself.

He turns and looks at me.

"Have you been here before ?"

I'm such an idiot. I hadn't wanted him to know.

"Um, well yes."

We stop dead on the pathway.

"Jesus, why didn't you tell me? When?"

"Last year."

His face falls.

"Oh."

He's figured it out- with Mandy.

I hate this tension and awkwardness; I hate this discomfort whenever she is mentioned. Without thinking, I blurt.

"Why do you always look so crushed when her name comes up?"

Jesus, I want to throw myself into the air and catch the words before they reach him.

He seems uneasy.

"I'm not crushed. It's just … she makes me uncomfortable, … and it's probably jealousy, partly. She's your fucking wife. She's got you, officially. I don't."

I take his hand. "But you know I love you, Curt. You know Mandy and I are dead- we, as an item, as a 'thing', are long since over with."

He swings my hand gently. "You were just here a year ago with her, Brian."

"We were dead a year ago. It was pretend. It was bullshit."

He sighs and looks off.

"Let's not talk about her, okay? She … upsets me. I guess I just like to pretend sometimes that you aren't married to her; that she doesn't exist."

I squeeze his hand. "You and me both."

"You've only been married to her a coupla years, right?"

"_Five_ years."

"Which isn't that long, and already you hate her that much?"

"I don't hate her. I think … despise is the proper term. I resent her."

"Why?"

"I thought you didn't wanna talk about her?"

He looks off. His voice is shaky.

"Maybe it's time we got it out of the way." He looks back. "Tell me why you resent her."

"Because …" I sigh. "Curt, it's complicated. There's a million reasons, little things, big things. She practically became my bloody co-manager, which I didn't need or want. Jerry is enough of an arsehole as it is. She revealed herself to be a complete opportunist. She's very cunning."

"What about all the fucking around?"

I shrug.

"What can I say, we do what pleases us. We always have. We've never hidden it. If she wants to fuck somebody, she does. We had this naive idea that it wouldn't effect us- as if the fact that we got married meant we were protected from those things."

"What things?"

"The usual boring shit- jealousy, etc."

"Has she ever slept with someone in your inner circle?"

I look at him.

"I only know of one person, for sure."

His face changes.

"Jerry."

"Jesus fucking Christ. No way."

"It's true. I walked in on them. I find him entirely revolting, myself."

"Fuck, me too. So … what did you do? You didn't fire him."

"No, I couldn't have. They both knew that. He's too valuable. It's probably why she did it- to get at me. She seems to enjoy that sort of shit- the power trip thing."

"So it really bothered you, though?"

I stop and start several times, and then cover my face with both hands, flustered.

"Yes … no … I don't know."

"But she's slept with loads of people, right? I mean, in front of you, even- both of you have, at those orgies you give. You and I practically fucked right under her nose that night."

"Yes, in 'our' bed, too."

"See, this is what I'm uncomfortable with. That you actually still have feelings for her, underneath, or else it wouldn't matter to you."

I snap.

"I don't! She's betrayed me, Curt! I knew Jerry was a sleezeball already. For some reason I just didn't expect it from her. There's absolutely no turning back, for us."

"Do you mean, because of the business stuff, or because of the fucking?"

I grip my hair with clenched hands.

"I don't know. I don't know. Both, maybe."

"So has she ever slept with anyone close to you? A lover?"

I sigh. "Now I'm beginning to understand how you felt all the times I've been grilling you. I don't know, Curt. Undoubtedly."

"How would you feel about that?"

"I guess I'd feel … I don't know … betrayed."

"Even with you both …?"

"Fucking everything that walks? Yes. I know it doesn't make sense, but I can't help it. Curt," I look at him. "we're supposed to be enjoying ourselves on the magical island. Why are you so interested in this all of a sudden?"

He looks off. His eyes dart.

"What is it?"

He clears his throat and speaks slowly.

"There's something you should know, Brian. I've been struggling with how to tell you this, and I still don't know how in the fuck to."

I reach for his hand.

"What is it, my boy?"

He fidgets.

"Um, … y'know how you just said you both slept with everything that walks?"

"Yes."

"And up til we met, it would've been fair to um, put me in that same category- of indiscriminate fucking, right?"

I smile. "I don't know. I didn't know you before we met."

"Exactly. You didn't know me. And even after we first met, we still didn't know each other; I didn't know you, and I didn't know Mandy, but it didn't matter back then."

I squint, puzzled.

"What are you saying, Curt?"

He looks me dead in the eye, unsmiling.

"It was before I knew you, Brian."

"What was? What in hell are you talking about?"

There is long pause.

His mouth opens, closes and opens again. "… Mandy and I …"

I still don't grasp it. It's the furthest possible thing from my mind.

"Mandy and you what?", I ask innocently.

He speaks softly.

"Fucked."

My brain immediately shuts down. It's too much. I turn away from him.

"No, you didn't."

"Brian, do you honestly think I would make that up?"

Realizing the sense in that statement, my insides instantly bind up. I drop his hand. I feel like I've been hit by a bus. My voice is extraordinarily weak.

"No."

I feel sick. I cover my face in my hands again. I want to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear.

He drops into a crouch in front of me, whispering quickly.

"Brian, listen to me. It was weeks before you and I got together. Like I said, I didn't know you then–"

I stand up and move away from him, facing the rock ledge. The desire to hurl myself off of it is nearly impossible to resist.

He follows.

"It was the night after we met that very first time. Jerry's party at the hotel."

Tears are flowing. I don't want him to see. I snap.

"Do you actually think I wanna hear this?"

"You _have_ to hear it, Brian! The context is everything!"

"I don't care about the bloody stupid context!"

I walk back and forth, like a trapped animal, desperately looking for an escape route.

He reaches for my elbow.

"Brian, please."

I rip it away. I'm seething.

"Let GO of me!"

I burst past him, running at full bore up the path, sobbing. I'm overwhelmed with grief and feelings of betrayal, of being crushed, physically, from the inside out. I trusted him! I gave him my fucking heart, completely and fully! I gave him _everything_, I poured out my soul to him, I _worshiped_ him, even! And what does he do? He goes and fucks MANDY ? This CANNOT be REAL !

He quickly catches up and reaches for my backpack to slow me, then my elbow. I turn part way to shove back at him, and stumble over the uneven ground. We fall.

We are exactly at the rim of what we came to the island for- the volcano.

I go to hit him, to push him off of me, and he grabs my hands and holds them by my head. I struggle with him, screaming and swearing, damning him through gritted teeth. As he resists, as he calmly pleads with me to listen in response to my ragings, the level of frustration, anger and hurt boil over, to the point where I do something I would have found unthinkable not 2 minutes before.

I spit in his face.

A look of shock passes over him, before he puckers up … and spits back.

With newfound strength born of fury I throw him off and stand quickly. We each wipe ourselves with our sleeves.

"You think with all the times people have come in my face, a little spit wouldn't matter."

"Shut UP, you fucking BASTARD! You motherfucker! You think this is funny?," I snarl, and throw out a punch, swinging wildly. It lands square in the side of his neck, after which, he stumbles momentarily.

I scream.

"You think I'm some bloody little pansy! Some fairie? You think I couldn't fucking kill you right now?"

He holds his neck, and yells back.

"Ordinarily I would say no! But seeing as we're 15 feet either way from the edge of a fucking volcano on one side, and the top of a mountain on the other, I have no doubt you could easily kill me! I'm just asking that you listen to me, beforehand! Do what you want, after!"

"Why should I fucking listen to you?"

"Whatever fucking happened to 'not telling the whole story is lying'? Huh? Brian, if there's one thing you've taught me, it's that it's extremely unwise to fly off the handle before you know the whole story! It's not worth throwing the whole thing away over a misunderstanding!"

"WHAT misunderstanding! You fucked my wife, right?"

"OH, now she's your WIFE, and not the whore of Babylon?"

"You're the fucking whore !"

"Yes! Before I met you I was! You were too! I just find it supremely ironic that 5 minutes ago you didn't give a single shit about her–"

"–5 minutes ago I didn't know you'd FUCKED her !"

The words catch in my throat and I burst out crying. I drop to sit on a rock on the ledge. I sputter out to him between sobs.

"Just when exactly were you planning on telling me? Can you answer me that?"

He looks down at me. His voice is sad.

"You have no idea how much I've struggled with this, Brian, from day one. Trying to figure out any possible way to tell you that it wouldn't be this fucking nuclear explosion."

I snap and look up at him.

"Why didn't you just come out with it? Tell me what she tasted like?"

He shakes his head.

"Stop, it Brian–"

"–Why didn't you compare her to me in bed, hmm? Why didn't you FUCK ME, and then TELL ME how much better Mandy was? Pussy! Tits! No LUBE! I thought you were a big strapping man. Turns out you're a fucking pussy."

"Maybe I am. That's fair. And it's been made worse by the waiting- I understand that. How could I bring it up, though? How could I ease it into the fucking conversation?"

"Do you think I give a single shit about your bloody plight! Am I supposed to feel sorry for you for not telling me?"

"NO, Brian! I'm just asking you to listen to me, that's all." He crouches down in front of me again.

"Please."

"I'm in no mood. I'm in no mood to see your face, do you know that? I actually feel like I never wanna see you again."

"I understand. I'm sorry."

I snap.

"DON'T fucking say you're sorry!" I rip the backpack off myself and throw it down. "I can't believe I'm stuck here with you for 3 hours."

"Brian, all I'm asking is that you listen. Please. Give me the benefit of the doubt about this."

"And I should do that WHY, exactly?"

"Because it's me you're talking to right now. Not Jerry. I love you. I would never betray you."

"What do you call fucking my wife?"

"She instigated it, Brian! And like I've said 5 times, it was before you and I even knew each other!"

"Okay, y'know what? Remember when you almost walked out the door, the first time, that is? Remember that?"

"Yes."

"Well, how 'bout I say the same thing to you that you said to me then?"

"Which was?"

"You've got 5 minutes, boy."

He sighs.

"And you'll actually listen to me for 5 minutes?"

"Like I have any fucking choice? We're stuck here on a bloody island! Who knows what I was thinking! Romance! I was thinking romance! Bring the man I love to this amazing magical place and we'll, well of course, we aren't allowed to actually FUCK, but we'll …" I spit it out bitterly, mockingly, "cement our love."

"Brian, I understand you're angry, but please don't shit all over us."

I yell.

"'Us'? What the fuck constitutes 'us', anyway? Does that include the 3 way between you, me and Mandy?"

He snaps.

"Mandy is not who I'm in love with! I've never given a single shit about her!"

"You certainly gave enough of a shit to fuck her!" I look off. My stomach twists painfully. The tears spill down my cheeks.

"SHE fucked ME! She came onto ME! If you'd let me tell you the fucking story- if you'd shut UP for 5 fucking minutes, some things might even come to light that might surprise you! Like, I'm not the filthy scum sucking snake you suddenly, apparently take me for!"

"Go on them!" I shout. "Tell me what it was like fucking my wife! I wanna hear every detail!"

"Will you please quit it with this victim stuff? Were you listening when I said–"

"–Don't ask me any questions- that's not allowed! You've got 5 minutes! Just fucking bloody talk!"

"Alright! I hope this is worth it!"

He sits down on the rock next to me. After a beat, he speaks.

"The night after you and I first shook hands, I had been invited to Jerry's party at his suite at the hotel. I was trying and as you saw when you met me, failing at the time, to stay clean. I was on methadone, but people kept giving me new drugs, and in my idiocy, I figured so long as it wasn't 'H', I was safe.

Anyway, I get to the hotel, and some asshole in your entourage tells me to try this powder, which turned out to be angel dust. You know who it was? Mandy! So I tried it, and right away she begins cornering me asking me all these questions, and saying shit to me, like all seductive. I knew she was your wife, but I mean, it was a fucking orgy scene, and people were fucking all around us. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. I guess I thought this must be a normal thing for you guys.

I was uncomfortable with it, though- because I mean, what if you walked in and she's all over me? But she said you were back at your suite having your own private orgy. That blew me away. I mean, I'd only ever heard of swingers and shit; I'd never been surrounded by them.

So the dust starts to kick in- I felt like this weird trip pending, and she pulls me into the little side bedroom, and what I mostly remember was her telling me that you'd been talking about me nonstop since you first saw my band at that gig in the field, that you wouldn't shut up about me, and that in fact I was the sole person you had wanted to meet in all of America, which I mean, wow, that blew my mind too, but as she was saying it, she was sort of spitting it out angrily. It was obvious she was very annoyed with me, like I was spoiling something for her. I think she maybe thought she was pulling it off, like I wasn't getting that she sort of hated my guts or something, that she was jealous, and sick of being jealous, and that she was gonna use me to get back at you.

She said she heard I was a fag, but she was gonna 'try me out' even so, before you got your hands on me, because she knew we were probably gonna get around to that.

I mean, it was all very freaky and sort of … scary; it was weird and intimidating. And the angel dust added to it. It's a very paranoid drug."

"If you were so nervous and freaked, how did you get it up?"

He sighs.

"She started taking off her clothes, and–"

"–Christ."

"Alright, I won't tell you, I don't see the point anyway–"

"–No! Go on!"

"Why Brian?"

"Because it's the whole story! It's either the whole thing, or nothing!"

"But why? What difference does it–"

"–Because believe me, if you don't tell me, I'll imagine something much worse, okay? Tell me!"

"Okay! She took of her clothes, and she … unzipped me and knelt –"

"–Jesus."

I turn my head away.

"She went down on you?"

"You asked me to tell you."

I wince.

"I just didn't expect it. She put her mouth on you."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

I let out a long sigh. Why this in particular hurts so much, I don't know.

"I thought you said you fucked."

"We did. She started me off and then she pushed me back on the bed and climbed up."

I press my thumbs into my temples.

"That sounds like Mandy alright."

I look up at him.

"Did you come?"

He fidgets.

"What does it matter, Brian?"

"So you came. She made you come."

He looks off.

"Yes."

"How long? How long did it take?"

He spits out.

"I don't know! What could it possibly matter!"

I point to my chest.

"It matters to ME!"

He stares. He whispers.

"Not long. It wasn't long. I never had much control on drugs."

I laugh bitterly.

"Fantastic. What a fantastic story. This is like the best day of my life. So what happened after? Did you cuddle?"

"Stop it Brian!"

"No, I wanna know! What happened?"

"What do you think happened! She climbed off! And then it got even more fucked up. While she was getting dressed she talked to me in this very business-like tone, switching in and out of an English accent, which weirded me out, and she said I wasn't half bad but she'd certainly had better, and she'd be sure to tell her husband that. So initially, Brian, I thought you _knew_.

Then she started threatening me, saying I'd better not go anywhere near you or my whole career would be fucked. She knew you were hoping to get me signed. She said she warned everybody I'd be a liability, an enormous drag on the ticket and I could threaten your whole thing because I was such bad news, I was such a loser."

"Jesus. Even for Mandy, that's amazing. Did you say anything to her?"

"No, I was in a bit a stupor by then. Both from the drugs, and from what had just happened- she'd started off moving, then when I got close she stopped dead and bore down and sort of milked it out of me- squeezing really hard with her inner muscles. It was sort of uncomfortable, like–"

"–Like she was taking from you. You don't have to explain -she's done it to me- it's Mandy's signature fuck-you fuck. She's in control. She gets to say she made you come, and yet you didn't really enjoy it."

"Exactly! And then to have her stand there immediately after and insult me and threaten me and tell me all this mind blowing shit. I felt like I'd just been fucked by a mafia boss. I had no idea you'd been talking about me for months; I had no idea you were trying to get me signed."

"You had no idea I wanted you from the first moment I saw you, and that she knew that."

"Did you tell her?"

"I didn't need to. She wasn't stupid. It was obvious."

We sit in silence for long moments, mulling it all over. All of the rage I'd been feeling towards him has dissipated and been redirected at her. I don't doubt a word of the story- it's classic Mandy. She's a climber and she steps on underlings and anyone who might possibly pose a threat to the money/fame trail. She was very open with anyone who would listen of her feelings that Curt was indeed bad news, and worse, yesterday's news. While she was as blown away as I was by his stage performance that first night, by the electricity and passion he generated, until she saw the look in my eyes, it was merely something to chuckle over- Curt as cartoon. It wasn't art to her, none of this was, it was business, commerce, which was all she really understood, despite her early friendship with Jack. She was softer then, when we first met. She was still human. With the money, with Jerry and the hangers on and press conferences and photo shoots, she changed.

I turn to him. I reach for his hand. He looks at me. His face is soft, and open. My heart puddles up and spills over.

We lean in and hold each other.

I whisper to him. I rub his back.

"I'm sorry."

"S'alright. I just wish it'd never happened."

"I know. Me too."

"I wish I'd been able to tell you sooner."

"I know, my sweet boy."

I kiss and stroke his hair.

"I'm sorry about what she did. It was the last thing you needed at that point."

"Fuck, I know, especially the fucking angel dust."

"You have a better appreciation than I'd thought for what she's really about."

"Ya."

I kiss the bruised spot on his neck, where I'd hit him.

"I'm sorry I was such a motherfucker to you."

"It's alright. You didn't know."

I smile.

"I have to say, I love that you charged right ahead, despite all her bullying and threats. I'm very impressed."

He laughs. We pull back and look at each other. It strikes me that his eyes are the same color as the ocean, this far out from the shore. I can see it just beyond his shoulder; beautiful and bright and clear.

"Well, I figured, what the fuck did I have to lose? My career was already pretty much nonexistent. And I got a free lunch out of it, at a fancy restaurant."

He grins.

"And then you kept looking at me. Jerry was sitting right there, and you were eyeing me the whole time. It was hot."

"I thought it was the other way around!"

He looks up. He scratches his chin.

"I don't know, maybe it was. I don't remember much about that day, I guess."

"I remember exactly what you said to me."

"What?"

"You said heroin had been your main man, and maybe I could be your main man, now."

He rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, did I? That is fucked up!"

"It's true- you looked me right in the eye and said it."

"Far out! Is that an addict's pickup line, or what? I'm surprised you didn't immediately run the other way!"

"It was lovely, Curt. Believe me, I was smitten."

I look down at his lips and run my finger along them.

"Can we kiss now? Is that allowed?"

He holds his hand out and turns imaginary pages.

"Wait. Let me check the rule book."

I smile.

"The rule book, okay. What's it called? 'How to Keep Your Sanity'?"

"'When Marooned on a Desert Island'."

'"With Curt Wild'."

We giggle.

"No, 'With Brian Slade'. No! I got it! "'Twenty Ways to Keep From Fucking'- or no, 'How to Become a Virgin Again'! That's it!"


	20. The First One, Ever

The trick to pulling away from Curt Wild's lips, reluctantly, always reluctantly, is strength, steadfastness, a will of absolute iron, which is not to be confused with the possessing of an iciness in one's veins, for the blood does pump freely- one does experience a terrible strain, a terrible longing in one's loins. But one must have a belief in a higher power, lest you fall immediately back into place, back towards those lips like the proverbial magnet, like the proverbial missing puzzle piece, and, god knows … it won't stop there.

The higher power for me, for us, is the virgin thing.

I've fallen madly in love with it, because, really, how can you not? It _is_ Curt, this idea. It embodies him- the contradictions, the heartbreaking innocence, the sheer romance of it, the HOPE, though! The hope that it will help provide a new beginning for him or at least some sort of dividing line in his life, the hope that he can take back was what taken from him, that he can regenerate himself and rewrite his own terrible history.

When I pull away from him, it's on my face, this feeling. It's all over it, bloody plain as day, helpless to be disguised. I imagine someone walking by us, who points and turns to a friend saying,

"See that guy right there?"

"Which one?"

"Him, right there!"

"The beautiful one with the hair and the lips and the amazing eyes?"

"No, the _other_ one!"

"Oh ya, him. What about him?"

"THAT's smitten!"

* * *

><p>He smiles crookedly at me.<p>

"What?"

I try to right my face.

"Nothing."

* * *

><p>Finally, we lift our asses off of these hard rocks and do what we came here for.<p>

"You mean we didn't come here to argue and fight?" He mocks, leaning too far for my liking to look over the volcano wall.

"Will you be careful, please? No, we didn't come here to argue- not to my knowledge, but seeing as we get around to it every few days, we should bear that in mind, next time we go sightseeing."

"Ya, it's like our period. Every certain time frame, we fucking bleed, whether we like it or not."

I grab his hand.

"Wildian analogy, that."

He nods formally and speaks in an English accent.

"Yes. Rather."

I lean with him, though not quite as far.

"Fuck, Curt, can you believe this? We're looking inside of a fucking volcano!"

"It's insane. It's nuts. I sorta wish we had a guide with us. All I know is, it's been dormant for like 800 years or something, right?"

I zip open the backpack and take out my book, which is stained by squashed grapes from when we fell. My finger traces down the page.

"Volcano … volcano- okay. Last known approximate eruption, 1100 AD."

"Fucking incredible." He points to the far end. "Look at this Brian."

"Hold on." I'm eating the few remaining intact grapes. I slot the bookmark in place and walk to him, handing him the last few, and wiping the juice on my pants.

He's pointing to an outgrowth, a small green patch, which upon viewing with my binoculars, turns out to be a tiny set of weird hairy ferns or miniature trees which have somehow managed to find a perch inside the otherwise lifeless, cement-gray interior walls.

I hand him the binoculars. He speaks, while looking through them. His lips are stained red from the grapes.

"Fuck, there isn't supposed to be any life inside volcanoes, is there?"

"No!"

"I mean, how do we know there isn't a tiny nest in there somewhere? Housing the eggs of some unknown species, something yet to be discovered by man, or something left over from fucking dinosaur times that's still thriving?"

"Only, just inside this volcano? We don't." I extend my hand. "Let me see."

I peer at the green patch, and then straight down into the pit, leaning as I do.

"Brian, wait. Let me hold you. You're scaring the shit out of me."

As I continue peering, he moves his body directly behind me, spreads his legs for leverage, and wraps both arms firmly round my waist.

"Are you sure there's no other way to hold me?"

"Waddayu mean? I think this is the best way."

"I know you think it's the best way."

"Huh? Oh! I get it!" He chuckles. "Just think, Brian. In a week, we'll be doing this with no clothes."

"Shut up." I lean further, spying what appear to be more patches further up the wall I'm standing on.

"Fuck, it looks like there's more of them directly beneath us! And there's colors, like maybe prehistoric flowers or something! We'll discover our own species! Hold me tight, Curt."

I lean until my body is at a near right angle to his. Through the lens there are what appear to be the most incredible large oval shaped vibrant red petals. I spring up excitedly, and in the split second that I do, I feel the firmness of his erection nestled between my cheeks.

What to do, what to do. All of my instincts tell me to lean forward and spring back up again, the corduroy of my pants helping to create an excellent source of friction when rubbed briskly against his jeans.

* * *

><p>"Lean forward again," I imagine him whispering to me.<p>

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"But why?"

"Because I want you to," the bottom in me hears him say.

* * *

><p>Either that or my instincts are screaming at me to turn swiftly round in place, right here at the edge of the volcano, and drop to my knees. My imagination likes this one better.<p>

"Turn around, Brian."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"What are you gonna do?"

"No, the question, is, what are _you_ gonna do?"

I answer weakly.

"I don't know."

"Yes you do. You're gonna open that sweet mouth of yours, and I'm gonna introduce you to my cock, good and swift and deep."

"But I've already met your cock."

He unzips himself. He pushes down on my shoulders.

"Ya, and it's high time you met him again."

* * *

><p>In reality, I turn round in place, standing, will of iron shaky but intact, and hand him the binoculars.<p>

"What are you doing?"

"I want you to see the flowers."

He reaches for my elbow as I begin to walk away.

"No, I'll see them in a minute. Keep looking."

Christ, I want to keep up the charade that I don't know, that I didn't feel him against me, more than I want to fucking live. Should I cave? Maybe I'll cave. If he comes in his pants, here on the edge of the volcano, here in the middle of the ocean with nobody around, will it count ?

I'm teetering. I'm weakening. Finally I decide, I'll let him decide. I touch his red stained lips and give him a look. I whisper.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

His tongue protrudes and softly licks my fingertips. My cock instantly thickens.

He returns the look- it's of an intensity that recalls the one he gave me just before our first time, the one where his eyes bored into mine and wouldn't let go, the one that drew me forcibly into the room.

We look at each other in this smoldering way, a look that could ignite wet matches, that could ignite the whole of Lake Michigan, for what feels like a full minute, each of us knowing it could go either way. Yes, I'm crazy for the virgin idea, I'm in love with the thought of it, I really do want it for him, but at the moment I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to drop-kick it over the edge.

Thus I'm not sorry, nope, when he takes my hand from his lips, lowers it, and turns it toward his jeans, rubbing slowly, firmly, up and down the swelling.

His voice is gruff.

"As sure as I fucking am of _this_."

I gulp hard. My cock solidifies. In an instant, I am spun round to face the nearby rock. The corduroy is ripped from my waist, splitting my zipper, and I am unceremoniously plunged downward, head first, via his hand on the back of my neck.

Insane levels of excitement, shaking and panting like a wild beast … and then the nagging reality hits.

I blurt quickly, shakily.

"Curt, wait!"

He's unzipping himself. He's annoyed to be slowed down even for a moment.

"What?"

Goddamit, he hasn't caught on. I speak into the rock, not wanting to say this, not wanting to burst the

bubble.

"We don't have anything with us." Meaning lube, but I dare not speak the dreaded "L" word's name.

The other nagging reality gnawing at me: were I female, this wouldn't be an issue.

I feel him sag. It's awful. I can't stand it. I whisper.

"But maybe we can still do it–"

He snaps.

"–No! I'm not gonna fucking do that." It's not until later I remember that was the situation when he was raped.

"Then beat off and bounce up against me," I offer helpfully, trying not to plead, hoping he'll remember how crazy the bounce thing makes me.

He sighs deeply. His voice is calm.

"No, Brian."

I lift myself up and turn round. Without looking, I can see that he is rock hard.

Jesus, I want him. I whisper.

"Then let me …"

As I bend knees and begin descending he tucks his hands under my arms and pulls me up.

For some bloody reason, for some insane reason in the middle of all this, he's begun smiling.

"What, then?"

The grin splits his face in two.

"Let's go swimming."

I blink. I'm so fired up, it doesn't register at first.

"What?"

"Swimming."

I look at him.

"Curt, this isn't my jacuzzi, I don't have a bottle I can spray into the ocean."

"No, Brian. I'm not talking about fucking. This was a good little test for us. The ocean water will cool us both right down and it won't be traumatic like the fucking ice water hose at your house."

Great. Here we are with two throbbing, fully erect members, just inches apart, and he's just gone and done a complete 180 without telling me, and fallen back in love with the virgin thing. WHY god? WHY?

He laughs.

"Don't look so disappointed, now."

He begins tucking himself, with difficulty, back behind his zipper.

I reach. "At least let me do that."

He turns sideways, laughing again, and zips up.

"Nope!"

I look down at my broken pants.

"Well, what am _I_ supposed to do?"

He shrugs. He grins.

"No matter. The place is empty except for us. Just walk behind me on the way down, and don't get any ideas."

I frown.

"Do you have to be so bloody cheerful about this?"

He takes my hand and kisses it.

"I'm sorry, Brian. I really am. I led you on."

I mope.

"Yes you fucking well did. Prick tease."

He laughs.

"I'm really sorry. You're impossible to resist sometimes. It was a weak moment."

I whine-pout.

"It still is for me; the moment's still with me."

He groans softly and takes my other hand.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, my baby … blah blah blah blah blah."

Everything he says after that little endearment, the first one, ever, that's come out of his mouth and been directed at me, I don't hear.

When his lips stop moving, I speak.

"What did you just say?" I lean forward slightly, not wanting to miss it, that is, if I didn't imagine it.

"What did you not hear? I said it's incredibly important to me, I want it so badly, Brian; I want you to be the one. I want it to be incredibly special, I wanna be a virgin and build up to it and have you explode inside me on our honeymoon as an expression of our love."

He looks at me expectantly.

"No, _before_ that. You called me something, I think, if I'm not crazy, if I heard right, if I wasn't hallucinating."

He smiles.

"You caught that." He looks down shyly. "It slipped out."

"What slipped out?"

"What I said, what I called you."

"Which was?" I turn my face so that my ear is facing him.

"It's what I call you in my head all the time."

I cup my hand around my ear in exaggerated fashion. I lean toward him on tippy toes.

"Which IS ?"

He hesitates, then speaks.

"My baby."

I leap into his arms and bury my face in his neck, squeeling with delight, nearly hyperventilating as I speak.

"Forget fucking! Forget 'I love you', or 'I want you to be the one', or 'I wanna spend the rest of my life with you' ! Forget all that shit! I can die RIGHT NOW a HAPPY MAN !"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Okay, given the massive amount of content I've been throwing at the you guys, I am absolutely DYING to know what you think. That entire section re Curt at 17 - any thoughts ? The revelation that Curt at one point prostituted himself ? That he once lived with his school teacher ? Who ended up hanging himself ? The Angelina bit ? Curt having once slept with Brian's wife ? I would just appreciate some sort of feedback regarding this stuff or anything else you care to comment on, negative or positive. What do you like so far/dislike ? Thank you!


	21. When You Become

Down in the cool water we mill about naked. It's my first time in the ocean in many years. Contrary to what he thought, I _can _swim, marginally. My best move is the side stroke, which I continually show him, floating by as he rests on his back, whispering to him.

"Say it again."

He lifts his head slightly.

"My baby. My baby. My baby. My baby. My baby. Okay?"

I grin stupidly.

"Yes. I won't have to ask you again for another 3 minutes, now." I float by his face. "Why were you trying to hide it from me all this time?"

He shrugs.

"I was embarrassed. I don't do pet names. What goes in my head, stays in my head."

I laugh.

"Are you sure about that, Curt? I rather think you spill the contents of your head quite readily, with little prompting."

He grins.

"Not everything."

"Oh no? Okay, well here's a challenge: tell me one thing you've got tucked in your head that you've never revealed, now that you've spilled your biggest secret- my pet name. Unless there are others of those I don't know about."

"No! There aren't any others, I promise you."

"I thought so. Okay, name something, though."

He grins wickedly.

"That's easy. What I beat off to. We've never discussed that."

"Sex, I knew it had to be sex."

"You've never told me, either."

"I don't beat off."

He guffaws loudly.

"What was that famous quote of Mark Twain's?"

"No idea; never read him."

He turns his head sharply.

"Jesus Christ, really? No Homer and no Twain? None?"

"So I'm a dunce. Tell me the famous quote."

"No, you're not a dunce, I just thought England's education system was 100 times better than ours. That's what we always hear."

"It is, if you pay attention in class."

"Well, I don't have that excuse."

"Then it must have been Michael's influence."

He looks up, thinking.

"Ya, you're right. I read bucketloads, all the Greek shit, and Huck Finn around that time. Anyway, the quote is, that 98% of men masturbate, and the rest are lying."

We laugh.

"That's great. And very true. So quit stalling. Spill."

He turns to me.

"What, you actually want me to tell you what I think of?"

"When you beat off, yes. Why not?"

"Well, I mean … it's a little private. And I'm pretty perverted, Brian. What if it grosses you out?"

"Tell me one thing, like you're favorite thing, maybe. And I'll tell you mine."

"Okay … you go first, though."

He bends his elbows and folds his hands back behind his head.

I groan. I hesitate. We laugh.

"This is harder than I thought! Alright, no, this is easy. Before we hooked up, but after we met that first time, at the dinner table with Jerry, and you said that thing to me, it fucking sent tingles down my spine, and afterwards, every image I'd had previously, all the sure-fire ones, were gone, and they were replaced with you. I even went into the bathroom directly afterwards, did you know that? And I imagined you in the next stall, and beat off right there."

He nods.

"Yup. Same here."

"You beat off to thoughts of yourself, or you beat off in the bathroom right after?"

"Neither. No, all my old favorites sorta shriveled up and dried out after we met, and all I saw was you for a while."

"For a while? Not still?"

"Brian, we've been fucking for real, there's been no need for me to fantasize about you."

"But you said you had some perverted ideas. And we haven't gotten up to much perversion in real life. Can't you picture me in those? What are they by the way?"

He laughs.

"You're not gonna get 'em that easy!"

"Okay, just one, then. Not asking too much, there."

He hesitates, then groans, and laughs an open mouthed laugh.

"Shit. This IS hard! No, not yet. Later, maybe. You still haven't told me anything, anyway. What did you picture us doing when I first entered your fantasy world?"

"No big surprise. First and foremost, sucking you off. Also, you fucking me. And about a hundred variations thereof."

"Specifics."

"Y'know, just … I think in the bathroom stall, which would have been my very first fantasy about you, wait, no … I'm wrong. We'd already met by then, of course we had, remember? At the Bijou office in New York that time. We shook hands. You didn't remember that we'd already shook hands 3 days before."

"Yup. The wonder of drugs."

"It wasn't until the next day that we had that lunch with Jerry."

"So after our very VERY first meeting you beat off to me?"

I laugh. "Yes! I was immediately enraptured. Remember we had to sit through that bloody painful meeting with the fucking New York bigwigs?"

"Which lasted 3 fucking hours."

"We were sitting across the big table from each other, and I kept sneaking looks."

"Fuck, not me. I was too nervous. I was so out of my element. All these suits blathering on about business. I just wanted to fucking jump out the window."

He turns over in the water to face downward, and blows bubbles on the surface. I continue slowly circling him.

"So go on. I still haven't heard what you imagined. Specifics."

"Well I think the very first time, I mean, I kept thinking of you sitting at that big long table in the meeting. You were wearing that black leather jacket with that striped shirt underneath, which always looks so amazing on you, and I pictured myself climbing under the table during the meeting, somehow escaping the notice of everybody there, and sucking you off."

"Wow, good. And so I just have to sit there and not react, is that it?"

"Yes."

"And did I come in your mouth, or someplace else?"

I raise a brow and tilt my head sideways.

He laughs. "Okay, stupid question- in your mouth. The only thing better than that would've been if it had a glass table top and I'd shot off and sprayed on the underside of the glass."

I nod. "Yep, pictured it. We're of the same mind there. The key element to me had to be that the meeting went on regardless, and no one knew."

"Ya, and maybe I get asked a question, a few questions in a row, while your head's bobbing away."

We laugh.

I speak like a super straight suit, with a tight lipped American accent.

"Yes, um, Mr Wild, may we have your opinion on this important matter?"

Curt mimics, crossing his eyes, hanging his mouth open, stuttering and panting.

"W-what imp-important m-matter?"

I continue.

"Why, your whole entire CAREER, sir!"

He goes into an eerily accurate portrayal of himself coming. So much so, that I find it rather jarring. He lifts his head out of the water, tilts it straight back, inhales sharply, cries out hoarsely, and then repeatedly coughs, sniffles, wipes the imaginary moisture from his eyes and then looks off with heavy lids, blinking and speaking in that amazing post-peak gravel tone, "Ya … sorry … what?"

As much as we can in the water, we double over laughing.

"Curt, don't do that! I'm not kidding! It's exactly what you look like when you come!"

He grins devilishly.

I shout.

"Okay, now you! Your turn!"

"Aww, Brian, I'm getting cold. Let's swim back and I'll tell you then."

* * *

><p>On the shore we towel off and lay our naked forms back on the blanket. The sun is warm and sweet. We hold hands.<p>

"Jesus, this is almost too wonderful. I might fall asleep."

He grins.

"I love the idea of our fisherman buddy …"

"Manuel."

"Manuel, sailing up to shore seeing the two of us buck naked, holding hands, snoozing away."

I giggle.

"He'd keep on sailing."

"Damn right."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

"Nope. So long as you don't mind a diet of raw fish."

"And lube-less sex."

He groans.

"No. Not gonna happen."

"Well, we could always wave somebody down, catch a ride to town once a week."

"Get our mail, pay some bills, grocery shop, and then hitch it all to a little dingy on the way back."

"Or we could just buy ourselves a boat."

"No, I like the idea that we're totally possession-free. We rely solely on the goodwill of others."

"Ya, we'd be known as 'Los maricones en la isla,' – 'the queers on the island.'"

"And some people wouldn't believe it was true, and some people would. Folklore. We'd be our own myth."

"But nobody would bloody well come near us, so how do we hitch a ride?"

"We'd wave money at them as they floated by, on the end of a huge fishing pole."

"Reel them in. But what about the goodwill of others?"

"Well, the guy would accept cash at first, then he'd do it for the goodwill blowjobs."

We laugh.

"So we'd either have fishermen lining up to give us rides, because they can't get blowjobs like that at home, or we'd be total outcasts for being fags and nobody'd come near us …"

"Or there'd be a police raid every week."

"Not in England. Homos are no longer illegal there. Since like '66 or something."

"I think it still is in the States, at least Michigan, for sure, and I don't think anyone's lining up to make it legal any time soon. I remember in Detroit, the cops would raid this gay club downtown all the time."

"A place you frequented?"

"Well I'd heard about it, and I checked it out a coupla times when I was a lot younger, just out of boredom and I guess, horniness, but there wasn't much to the place. It was tiny and shitty, and it was mostly older guys anyway."

"They must have loved you."

"I got a bit of attention, but I don't remember taking anyone up on their offers. It sucks though, because, what if I had liked it? What if it had been my favorite hangout or something? What business is it of the cops or of anybody else's if I wanna fuck somebody? So long as I'm not forcing them. What gives them the right to barge in and intimidate and harass and arrest people who were minding their own fucking business ?"

"If it's illegal, that's what gives them the right."

He sighs.

"Hate cops."

I fidget.

"I have a longstanding fantasy involving a cop."

"That you beat off to?"

"Um, yes, Curt."

He grins slow. He laughs.

"So do I."

We burst out.

I turn on my side, lay my head on his shoulder and slide an arm across his chest.

"Okay, this I gotta hear."

His eyes drop.

"Careful."

"Not to worry. I promise not to touch below the nipples."

He raises his hand to rest it over my arm.

"Spill."

He squirms. He hesitates.

"Come on. I've told you one, now tell me one."

"But … your fantasy only involved me. There was no embarrassment factor."

"Curt, you chickenshit. I've eaten your ass. I've seen you come. I've seen you cry. I've seen you suicidal. There can be no embarrassment here."

"But … what if you don't like it? What if it turns you off?"

"Why do you assume I'm some virginal little queen about this shit? Even if it does turn me off, so what? It's not like I'm gonna walk out on you."

He nods.

"Okay."

He sighs.

"The cop story."

"Please."

"Um, well–"

"–Okay, wait. When did you begin having this fantasy? How long?"

"This is pretty old."

"And is there any certain mood you'll be in when you'll picture it?"

He shrugs.

"Just a horny mood."

I push his bangs aside with my hand.

"Is there ever a time when you're not?"

"Shit, I'm not always hungry for it, Brian. Not 100% of the time. It just seems that way because we're new to each other and we're in love and we do it constantly."

"And when we're not doing it, we talk about doing it."

"Right. As evidenced by this very conversation."

"By most of our conversations, of late."

We smile. I kiss his jaw.

"Sorry, I interrupted you. Go on."

He sighs.

"Okay, well–"

"Oh, wait! I'm sorry! Describe the cop first."

"Well, it's not only ever one type of cop. There's maybe like 3 types. Like I'm not adverse to an older guy, late 30′s maybe, salt and pepper hair, ice blue eyes, ripping body."

I nod.

"Mmm hmm."

"Then sometimes I prefer the rookie. Y'know. Young, nervous, inexperienced, a bit on the lean side, but not too scrawny."

"Full head of wavy hair."

"Ya, nice. No fucking crew cuts. Believe me, nobody in any of my fantasies have crew cuts. And then there's the guy who's sort of my equal- my age, my build, maybe a bit of attitude."

"Wow, okay, ya. Definitely like that one. But tell me the story with the first guy."

"Well all the stories are pretty much interchangeable."

"Okay, but I wanna picture you and the older salt and pepper guy. A beard would be nice."

"Nah, that's pushing it. They wouldn't allow it."

"But it's fantasy- anyway. Sorry, I won't interrupt again. Tell. I'm all ears."

"Well, alright see, I usually picture it's summertime and I've got the windows open and I'm speeding down the highway blasting the music in my rattletrap shitbox and –"

"–Do you have a car?"

"Not now. This is sorta based on a car I did have for like 6 months at one point, when I was like 16. Y'know, totally illegal rustbucket with duct tape holding the doors on, that sorta thing."

"So are you 16 in this?"

"No, no. I'm, I don't know. Of indeterminate age. I haven't thought about it."

"What are you wearing?"

He looks at me.

"Brian, will you let me tell the fucking story? I'll get to all that. I'll fill in the details for ya."

"Sorry."

"It's warm out. For some reason I like the idea that I'm barefoot. Also, because it's illegal to drive barefoot. Did you know that?"

"No, but then, I don't drive."

"You don't drive?"

"I don't know how to."

"Jesus christ, you're kidding! I never heard of such a thing. You could never live in America, my friend. Certainly not Michigan."

"I know, I know. Go on. You're driving down the road."

"Ya, so I'm shirtless maybe, or just in a t shirt or an old threadbare tanktop."

My eyes widen.

"MMMMM!"

He grins.

"And of course, the cop pulls me over cuz I'm speeding, and the plates have expired, or something. Y'know, multiple offenses. It's nighttime. And as he walks up to the car, I'm checking him out in the side mirror and I'm like, wow, this guy's hot. He like, maybe personifies the ultimate fantasy to the guy driving- to me, in the fantasy."

"Okay, yup."

"And ah, he walks up to the window and he asks me for my driver's license and shit, and I hand it to him and he doesn't take it right away cuz he's checking me out. Okay, maybe I'm shirtless, did I mention that?"

"Ya, that was one possibility."

"And I'm a bit sweaty because it's hot."

"Fuck, nice."

"And he's all in his uniform and shit and he's eying me and he takes the license and he picks up his walkie talkie to call it in to headquarters or whatever. To make sure I'm not some criminal. And the whole time he's leaning in the window staring at my chest and my crotch as he talks into the talkie thing, and it's a bit, y'know, intimidating."

"Jeans. I'm picturing you in soft, worn, ratty jeans."

"Ya, that's about right. And so he's going on in this code language I don't understand- y'know the 10-4 shit, and maybe he stands up but he's still like right in the window as he talks, and I'm nervous and I'm staring straight ahead but I can totally feel his eyes one me, and I start to get turned on, my cock starts to stiffen."

"Phew, and he's right there to see it?"

"Ya. And then he gets turned on seeing it, and he finishes up the call, and he hooks the walkie talkie to his back pocket or whatever, all nonchalant, and he says something like, 'Son, do you know why I pulled you over?' They always ask you that for some reason."

"I think it's in case you confess to some bigger crime you just committed."

"Ya, really fuckin stupid. Anyway. And I say no, or whatever. And he begins listing all the violations with the car, y'know, this light's out, the car isn't registered, I was speeding, etc. And he says there's gonna be a motherfucker of a ticket."

"He says 'motherfucker'" to you?"

"Ya, I don't know why I always throw that in, maybe it's like, he's announcing to me that this isn't a routine pull-over. This one is different."

"Okay."

"And then he always says, it's gonna be like, 300 hundred dollars, and he says to me, 'Can you afford that, Curt?' And I snap at him cuz I'm pissed off and upset and antsy, cuz here I was minding my own business and he's gone and ruined my whole fucking month, and I'm annoyed that he used my name, as if we know each other, and I say to him, 'Do I LOOK like I can afford it, officer?'"

"Shit."

"And he looks at me a minute and he says, why don't you step outside the car. And I say why? And he says it again- step outside the car. So I reluctantly open the door, and I stand up, and I get my first good look at him, and he's really fucking hot. Y'know, intense set of eyes, tan, good strong jaw, nice build, just really tight and fit, great biceps, and he's looking me up and down, not saying anything at first, and it's making me fucking rock hard, and my dick's straining against my pants, and it's glaringly obvious, and he walks up to me and he says something like, 'y'know, Curt, there are other ways you can pay the fine'."

"Woah!"

"And I don't say anything cuz I'm nervous and freaked, and he asks if I understand what he's saying, and I don't answer. I'm looking down at the ground, and he takes his finger and he puts it under my chin and tilts it up."

"Bloody hell."

"And he says like, did you hear what I said? And I say ya, and he's staring into my eyes and he says, and do you understand exactly what I'm saying to you, Curt? He keeps calling me Curt, and I look at him and I say ya. And he fucking takes out this set of fucking handcuffs–"

I gasp.

"–Eureka!"

"Y'know, genuine, real metal cop's cuffs, and he fucking presses them into me and slides them up and down my crotch, and my dick rages of course, and the cuffs are sorta cold, and it feel good cuz it's so hot out, and he tells me to get into the squad car, into the back seat, and I don't dare argue. Plus I'm too turned fucking ON."

"Christ, I'm gonna need to go swimming again."

"And y'know, all this is happening on the side of the highway so there's cars buzzing by- it's all out in the open."

"Absolute bloody genius."

"And he leads me over to it and I get in and he shuts it, and the engine's running and the air conditioning's on, and he pushes me down on the big leather bench seat which feels cool to the touch, and the cop radio's blaring the whole time, y'know, 'car 72, where the fuck are you? Get the fuck over to 5th and Main'."

I laugh.

"And he's all over me, kissing me, seriously mauling me, feeling me up through the jeans and his hat knocks off and he's got this amazing head of thick salt & pepper hair that I see for the first time, and I run my hands up into it and I rip open his shirt and the buttons go flying all over the car, y'know, the whole bit. And he slides down my body and opens my pants and sucks me off somethin fierce. Like, no holding back."

He looks down.

"Brian, you _are _gonna need to swim."

I back my hips away from him.

"Sorry. I'll jump in after. Go on. You come, I gather?"

"Ya."

"Where? His mouth, or inside the squad car?"

"Well, I sorta like the idea that I shoot a huge load, more than he was prepared for, and it goes partly in his mouth, and partly all over that nice crisp dark blue cop shirt."

"Ya, some of it on his badge."

"And try as he might, he can't get the stains out."

We giggle.

"And then, and this is my favorite bit. We sit up, in the seat, and I kneel down on the floor in front of him and I'm returning the favor, right? And his cock's huge, of course, like massive, all veiny and taut, sticking straight up out of his pants, and I'm workin it, getting him all slick–"

I feel woozy.

"–Christ."

"And his eyes are shut and he's gasping and moaning of course, and he doesn't see that I've reached for the handcuffs, and just as he's about to come I grab his wrists and slap on the cuffs and there's something in the ceiling, like something they have there for criminals- a big metal ring that the cuffs are designed to be hooked onto, and it shuts closed over the cuffs so he's locked in place."

"Holy shit. Hands hanging straight up in the air!"

"Pants wide open, big stiff dick hanging out."

"Fresh come all over that nice clean uniform."

"And I say something to him like, well I hope that was worth 300 hundred bucks, _officer_."

I burst out laughing.

"Fantastic! The only thing better would be a cock ring at this point. Slap that on him."

"Ya, so then when the chief comes looking for him, there he is all hard and flushed still …"

"Bucketloads of splaining to do."

"Fuck, I gotta work the cockring bit into the fantasy. I wasn't aware of such things before we met. So, once you release that, would he automatically shoot?"

"Ya, that's generally the idea."

"So that means the chief will get a nice surprise when he unclips it!"

"Fuck!"

We laugh.

* * *

><p>I return from the cool water, towel off, and lay back beside him on the warm blanket.<p>

"I love you."

He kisses my forehead.

"I love you too, my baby."

An enormous smile shoots across my face and I rock back and forth in sheer delirium.

"Curt, do you have any idea what that DOES to me ?"

He laughs.

"Ya, I think I have some! Should I stop saying it, maybe?"

"No! Never! I want you to say it so much I get sick of it!"

He turns his head from side to side, in imitation of me, sick of it.

"'ENOUGH already with the 'my baby' shit!'"

We giggle.

I spy the bruise on his neck and raise my hand to it.

"I can't believe I hit you."

"It's okay. It's doesn't really hurt. And we're even now."

I move up and in to gently kiss it, and lay my head down on his chest.

"So maybe we should–"

I hold up a finger.

"–Shhh."

"What?"

I move further down his chest, laying my head down on his breastbone.

"Hush, for a sec."

I listen. It's the beautiful rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat. I can't believe in all this time, I've never stopped to listen to it.

I grin. I whisper.

"I can hear your heart."

I continue listening.

"All I can hear is that in this ear, and the ocean waves in the other."

I look up at him.

"I think this is it."

"What?"

"The moment when you become my whole world."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note:<em> Many thanks to those that reviewed. It's practically the only thing that gives me the motivation to keep posting. When I get no feedback, I figure nobody gives a crap ... so thanks ! I love this story a lot - Brian and Curt were my first and still my favorite 'fan fiction' loves, and I've put my heart and soul into this story in a huge way, accordingly. It's nothing brilliant - I know it can be kind of silly and maybe stupid at points, but after seeing the film, I fell in love with the two of them and felt the need to round out their story.

There is _miles_ more to go in the story, trust me, so stick around. I just ask for some feedback to keep me going.

PS - Alwaysearching - I tried to send you a pm to thank you for your really nice review, but it said your pm was turned off. Just fyi.


	22. Making Mortals Do Things They Shouldn't

At some point I awaken. My head is resting on his shoulder, my arm across his torso. We had closed our eyes to rest, and it took us over. I was right, it _is _too bloody comfortable here, alone in each other's arms, on a warm sunlit beach on the edge of this mythical island in the Mediterranean.

I look. His face is directly across from mine, achingly lovely blonde stubble evident on his neck and jaw, lips softly parted, chest rising and falling as he breathes, lids .. quivering. My god, he's dreaming. This should be fucking amazing.

I carefully raise my arm to check my watch. We've got another hour. As I go to lower it again, something catches my eye, below.

I tilt my head up.

Oh no.

Well, at least I know what he's dreaming about.

Here's the dilemma though. When he asked me if coming in his sleep would 'count', I didn't answer him. We never decided either way. So … do I awaken him out of this restful, restorative slumber, or leave him in his natural, beautiful state?

Can you tell which one I prefer?

His breathing deepens. And if I'm not imagining it, his cock stiffens considerably, magically, right before my eyes, aided only by the vividness of his subconscious imagination. Damn, what I wouldn't give to have it, whatever he's imagining, blown up on a big tv screen right now.

Really, this is too bloody wonderful for words.

Awaken him? Right now? Not for a million pounds.

I slowly move my head off his shoulder and shimmy down the blanket, for a better view. He shifts slightly, but remains asleep.

At this moment, Satan opens a door in my brain and walks in.

"Touch it!", he whispers seductively. "He'll never know. Not if you're really careful."

"No!", I whisper.

Before my eyes, his cock fattens further.

Satan stuffs his hands in his pockets, and shrugs.

"Okay, but he's gonna come anyway, and you'll have missed it."

He exits my brain with a dismissive wave. "Dolt."

I shift my eyes upward. He looks supremely beautiful. Completely rested and at peace. Maybe he won't come. Some men get multiple erections during the night, which subside on their own. No ice water needed. So it's entirely possible that this too, shall pass. And I'll be thrilled and won't be able to wait to tell him. And then I'll make him recount his dream.

But some men, of course, particularly when denied for any length, particularly those, like Curt, with, shall we say … a strong sex drive, if I'm polite, or a wickedly, voraciously, insatiable one, if I'm not, shoot off straight up into the air like bottle rockets, like the bloody 4th of July, right in front of you. Right as you sit by … doing nothing … like a bleeding dolt.

Okay, stop it. I'm privileged to even be here. It will be an eye poppingly wonderful thing to watch, no matter what.

But I hope he comes.

But I wanna make him come.

I mean his rock hard cock is right there in front of me.

Shut UP!

His body shifts. His lips smack. His face now appears tense- his brow has become knitted.

Maybe if I just … maybe if he IS gonna come anyway, I mean … what would be the harm in simply … helping him along?

If I do it, it will be his fault. Payback for the tease up on the mountain.

_IF _I do it?

I'm not doing it!

I place the hand, the one that's weakening, behind my back.

Satan stands inside my ear now, whispering.

"Do it! Now's your chance! You don't have much time. Come on! You want it. He wants it. He'll never know!"

And when that doesn't work, Satan goes for the jugular.

"What, you wanna wait another week ?"

"No", I whimper, "but if he wakes up, he'll be really, really mad. I'll have betrayed him, and he'll leave me."

Satan whispers like the fiend that he is.

"No he won't. You can trust me. You have my word. I promise."

I whisper unsteadily. I'm barely breathing, I'm so nervous.

"But what interest do you have in this? Aside from the general delight you take in making mortals do things they shouldn't."

Satan eyes Curt, up and down, and speaks matter of factly.

"He's hot."

I survey his prone form.

"He is."

"That, and I'm sick to death of the waiting. Besides, it's bad for a man's health, to bring himself repeatedly to the edge, and not fall over it. If you get my drift."

"It IS! I didn't know! Oh god!"

"Can you please watch your language?"

"Sorry. How is it bad for him? What might it do?"

"He could injure himself permanently."

"Injure himself, how? In what way?"

He lowers his voice.

"Impotence."

I gasp. I gulp. I eye the magnificently beautiful, fully erect, flushed cock. I love it, like I love him. It's part of him, living and breathing, with a heart and soul, I would swear, all it's own.

Fully erect … perhaps for the last time?

"It's up to you, Brian, to protect Curt from himself, and all those silly romantic notions of his."

"They aren't silly! They're beautiful, and sweet, and heartfelt, like him."

Satan rolls his eyes and whispers under his breath.

"Whatever."

At this point, Satan leans forward, and drives in the final nail.

"Well, if you REALLY love him, like you claim, for the sake of his health, you'll do it."

The guilt-tears jump to my eyes.

I raise my hand from behind my back, but then hesitate.

Satan reaches and takes my hand in his, which for the record, is indeed cold and clammy, and wraps it, with extraordinary care, with extraordinary precision, with extraordinary delicacy, midway round the shaft.

Curt shifts slightly.

I pant nervously. My heart is banging in my chest, with terror, with exhilaration.

"Calm the fuck down," Satan shouts-whispers annoyedly. "Or your hand will start shaking, and you'll blow the whole thing, so to speak."

I take several deep breaths, but it doesn't seem to help. Talk about being caught red handed. Talk about being caught with your hand in the fucking cookie jar. Talk about having your cake (cock?) and eating it too.

"No! Get that right out of your mind! You bottoms are all the same! He'll instantly wake up!"

"I know! It's just a bloody expression! Leave me the fuck alone!"

"No! Because you'll never do it without me! Fucking pansy."

"Fuck you! Just watch me!"

With the lightest, most infinitesimal, barely detectable motion, my hand moves, upward, slowly, exceedingly slowly. It seems to take 3 minutes before I reach the base of the head.

I swallow hard, and turn to watch him. Thus far, nothing. The brow, which had been knitted, has relaxed.

Down the hand goes, every so slow, with the lightest possible feather touch.

Satan snaps.

"For Chrissake, you gotta apply _some _pressure. He's not even reacting. He'll never gonna come this way. Just what kind of fag are you?"

"Oh my god, will you shut UP! I'm trying to concentrate!"

"Alright! Seriously though, squeeze him just a hair tighter. You've got only 12 minutes before your boatman arrives."

"12 minutes! But we just had a whole hour!"

"Your stupid watch is slow."

"Oh shit!"

I pick up the pace as gingerly as I can. Curt shifts slightly. I'm petrified at any moment he'll wake up.

Satan blathers on ad nauseum.

"Ya, cuz I mean, do you want the guy to catch you beating off a naked sleeping man on the beach ? Y'think that'll go over well with all the rest of the fishermen? You guys'll be marooned here for months, and you'll both starve."

"No we won't! Curt can swim like a fish. He'll take his time and make it to shore."

"But how do you know he'll come back for you?"

"Of course he will!"

Satan grins wickedly.

"Sorry, I get carried away with myself sometimes. I know he would. He's the type I can't stand, even if he is blistering hot."

Satan checks his watch.

"11 minutes, Brian. It's now or never. Squeeze, and stroke for fuck's sake."

"You don't have to tell me what to do; I _have _done this a few times before, y'know."

"Well I have to say, you look like a rank friggin amateur, to me. Take my advice, stick with oral."

He checks his watch again.

"10 minutes 30 seconds."

I groan. "Okay. Y'know what? This is private, between me and Curt. Can you disappear now?"

He laughs sarcastically.

"Hell no! I'm not going anywhere! No siree! Not til this beautiful boy COMES!"

"Please, Mr Devil. Seriously. You can watch from wherever your usual perch is, just don't make your presence known. I mean, thanks and all that, but …"

He shrugs.

"Okay, I guess. Last time I do YOU any favors. I'm gonna check out, but believe me, I'll still be watching, in case you chicken out."

"I won't." I look down. The eye, all purple-ish and round and fat, is oozing it's nectar. My spine shivers. "It's far too late for that."

I look up. He's still under. This is absolutely incredible. I'm apparently a genius- I must be applying exactly the precise amount of pressure that such a delicate task requires, not one iota too much, not one iota too little. His brow is furrowed again. His mouth is tense. His chest is heaving softly and his tongue has twice darted forth to lick dry lips.

Oh fuck, what time is it?

"Satan, how much time do we have?"

Nothing.

Fuck, what if Manual shows up early ?

That does it.

I know this boy's cock, I know exactly what it needs at this moment, better than anyone on the planet. And right now, as he's teetering on the edge, he needs some good swift, double-handed action. I raise to my knees and lean over him. My right hand remains on the shaft, with my thumb pressing against the underside, focusing on the area just beneath the ridge, where all those lovely delicious nerve endings reside. My left hand softly cups the head. And now … the Fail-Safe Trigger.

My right hand turns and swivels as it moves upward, and swivels back again, as it recedes down, all while the left hand rotates softly round the head, as if opening a jar, only, especially in this case, with utmost delicacy, respect, and of course, love.

I raise my head.

"Ya hear that, Satan. Love!"

I look at Curt. His eyes remain shut, quite tightly, now. That tongue protrudes again. He swallows and breathes with difficulty. He's dreaming, still. And I've merely stepped in and become a part of that dream. The one where he was going to come anyway. No harm done here, at all, in fact it's absolute and utter magic. I'm so relieved.

Two, three, four, five more double swivels, six, seven, eight, and Curt's body becomes ever more agitated. His feet turn. His face becomes more strained and tense. All the while, the eye oozes continuously.

I whisper, lovingly to him, if slightly impatiently.

"Come, my beautiful boy. Come." I look round quickly. "Manuel will be here any minute." And then I see it. On the horizon, not all that far off. A small boat. How on earth did I miss this before? I'm praying he doesn't have binoculars.

There's only one thing to do.

_Down_ my face plunges.

Instantly, his breathing changes, and his body shifts. How he hasn't awakened yet, is a bloody miracle.

Carefully I suck and lick, taking him far inward, as my right hand, in tandem, swiftly works the base.

Fuck, what is going on? He should have come by now! Is it that he's unconscious? But people come in their sleep all the time!

Out of the corner of my eye Manuel creeps ever closer, heading straight for us, still too distant, I hope, to decipher a man's head bobbing furiously on the shore.

Then suddenly, in the space of 3 or 4 dizzying seconds, the fruits of my devilish betrayal come to bear. There is a loud gasp. His eyes fly open. To my absolute horror, he's awakened and is looking down, watching as I betray his trust.

His voice is stressed, almost strangled. He pleads.

"Brian wait! Don't!"

But it's too late – his head snaps back, his body twists and jerks and shudders, and he comes fully in my mouth.

I'm … absolutely crushed. I pull off and cover my lips in shame. He lays, panting. I await the onslaught, grimacing as I gulp and gulp down the week's pent up backlog. The special one. The one meant for our wedding night. Serves me right.

His voice is soft. He sounds so incredibly hurt and confused.

"Brian, I don't understand–"

"–I'm so sorry, Curt! Please forgive me! I ruined everything! I'm so sorry!"

He raises himself up onto his elbows and looks at me. In his eyes there is a look of tremendous sorrow.

"Brian, just tell me. Am I literally just a piece of meat to you ? I mean, how could you? Do you not care about me at all?"

I throw myself at him, burying my face in his side, slobbering.

"Please Curt! I'm so sorry! You were dreaming, you were already hard, I swear, and it was just too much to resist. Please! I'm so sorry! I beg you!"

He moves away and stands. He speaks without emotion.

"Manuel's coming. Get your fucking clothes on."

I stand, sniffling, wiping back the tears as we quickly dress and gather up the blanket, not looking at each other.

When the boat is nearing he spits angrily. He's shaking, he's so mad.

"So because I was hard, if that's even true, you thought it was okay to jump on me? You think that doesn't make me feel like a piece of fucking meat?"

I stammer.

"I-I, it was wrong. I don't know how to begin to beg for your forgiveness. I'll do anything to make it up to you, I swear. Please let me Curt, please."

He looks at me. His eyes are hard.

"I couldn't trust you to not take advantage of me while I was _sleeping_, that's what it comes down to. Even though you knew that waiting meant the entire world to me. You don't respect me, obviously. You don't care, or you would never have done that. You took from me like Mandy took from me that time."

I feel like I've been hit by a bus.

Please god, please just bury me in the sand and let the tide come in. Slowly suffocate me. Make it painful.

"Curt!" I whimper. "It's not true! I love you! I just, seeing you like that, I got weak, I lost control; it just took me over. I thought, if you were already hard, if you were going to come in your sleep anyway, that it would be okay. I'm so sorry! Please! I swear!"

"Brian, you can make all the motherfucking excuses you want, but what it comes down to is that you betrayed me. While I didn't have any say over what was going on. While I was _unconscious_. It's sickening."

As Manuel appears, and jumps out of his boat onto the beach, Curt turns to me.

"_You disgust me_."

I burst into tears.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

Okay, this is kind of a silly chapter overall, maybe, and an excuse to get back to some sex (it's hard to stay away when writing these two!), but goddamit I loved writing the entire segment between Brian and Satan … arguing with, and being vexed and guilted out and also _ridiculed_ by Satan himself, all while Satan tells him that he, Brian, can trust him, that Satan gives him his word on it, (Satan being such a credible guy n all.) Could not resist Brian saying 'oh god' only to have Satan take offense and ask him to watch his language. Could not resist Satan telling him to 'stick with oral.' God, I had fun with this.

Poor Brian is a victim of his own lust. He has good intentions, he always does when it comes to Curt, but circumstances sometimes conspire against him as they have here. When Curt tells him that he disgusts him … _ouch!_ That was painful even to write, and the only realistic response I could see for poor Brian was to burst right out into tears.


	23. For The Miracle That It is

The sight that Manuel is treated to on his boat is of two men in some distress. One, up at the bow, who on the way over to the island had been blissful at the sight of the blue waters, over the seagulls and the smell of salt air, now appears to be brooding and furiously angry.

The other man, who on the way over had also been animated and happy, if a touch sea sick, is now standing at the opposite end from the first man, with his face buried in his hands, bawling his eyes out. Strangest of all, his underwear is showing because the front of his pants are split open.

Manuel surveys the scene for the first 5 minutes or so, before calling to the second man, who from what he remembers, is named Brian.

Brian approaches after wiping his face on his sleeve. His eyes are bloodshot. His face is twisted, as though he will burst out crying again any second. Manuel speaks to him in Spanish.

"¿Está usted bien, senor?"

("Are you alright, senor?")

Brian stammers, having no clue what to say.

Manuel eyes Brian's pants, but says nothing. It's fairly obvious what the situation is between these two men.

"¿Puedo hablar franco?"

("May I speak frankly?")

Brian swallows hard, and nods.

Manuel continues in Spanish.

"I just want to let you know, I have a son like you."

"Like me? You mean, my age?" Brian responds, in Spanish.

"Yes, that, but also, my son likes men. He is a homosexual."

Stunned, Brian's mouth drops open slightly. He doesn't know how to react.

"It's okay. It doesn't bother me one bit. I love my son. I have no problem with it."

"Okay," Brian responds tentatively.

"I just, I mean I know it's not my business, but I just wanted you to know you don't have to pretend in front of me. My son, he pretends all the time, because he's a fisherman, and he feels he has to."

Brian nods.

"He probably does."

"It makes me sad. I'm not ashamed of him. He's a good boy. He's smart. And he has a good man in his life. They have been together 3 years now. Much longer than he had been with anyone before. It is a true love."

Brian's eyes fill with tears. He wipes them on his sleeve.

"Myself, I've been married to a wonderful woman for 32 years. It has not always been easy, but our love remains."

Brian grips the side of the boat as the first wave of nausea hits him. He is suddenly annoyed with Manuel for bragging. He wants to know,

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it is obvious that you and your friend are in love, and that something has happened between you. Something big."

They both look at Curt, who is too far away to hear them; completely oblivious.

Brian breaks down sobbing and blurts everything. He tells him the story; he tells him the back story. Everything. His failed marriage. Meeting Curt and the two of them falling deeply in love. Curt's desire for Brian to heal him after being violated, via a wedding night. The week of holding back, the hope that it held. And Brian's weakening on the beach, and resulting betrayal.

"He said I disgust him! He said I took advantage of him while he was unconscious, which I did. I'm so ashamed."

"It was wrong, what you did, but you are human. You are fallible. It does not mean you don't love him. That's all that matters."

Brian sniffles and shakes his head sadly.

"You don't understand. You don't know Curt. He places an enormously high value on trust. I've broken that trust. He won't believe me now. He won't be able to forgive me for what I did. It doesn't matter if I love him."

"But you do love him? Is there any question in your mind about that at all? Even a bit?"

"No. I love him, period. I worship the ground he walks on. He's everything to me."

"That is good, but it sounds like you maybe need to stand up to him. And stand up for yourself."

"How can I? What I did was wrong. I knew it, and I rationalized it away and convinced myself it was okay, because I wanted to do it. I was full of lust."

"I'm not a religious man, so I'm not one of those people that believe that things like lust are sins. I don't believe in that. Lust is a normal feeling in a man. Yes, it was wrong, what you did. It was a terrible mistake, and your friend is right to feel betrayed, but,"

He sighs.

"Brian, if you believe that your love for Curt is real and that it will last, then you have to learn to forgive yourself when you fail, because believe me, over the life of a relationship, you will fail."

He looks at Curt.

"So will he. It's a matter of how much you want to be together, that you forgive each other and move on. Life is short. And real love is rare. This I know, and I've lived 55 years- probably more than twice your lifespan, so I know."

Brian shakes his head sadly. His eyes fill.

"Curt is difficult to reason with. He has a hair trigger temper. He's had terrible things happen to him over the years involving betrayal. He can't tolerate it in me, of all people."

"Brian, may I have your permission to speak with your friend Curt? My English isn't bad."

Brian shoots up out of his seat.

"No! No, I don't think you should. I don't think he'll like that we've been talking about this. It could make things worse. Plus, he has a problem with authority."

Manuel's interest is piqued.

"Authority? How am I any sort of authority?"

Brian looks around. He's not sure even, himself.

"Well, it's your boat, and … you're older."

Manuel laughs.

"Those two things are true, but I think the thing that matters, rather than any 'authority', is that I have experience, I have been down these same roads to some degree, and also … if you believe that Curt is going to leave you anyway, what harm will it do if I speak with him? It might help."

Brian swallows, and considers this a moment. He's torn in trying to think straight, given the depths of his depression, sorrow, and shame, the glaring sun, and his growing nausea. Finally he nods, figuring, yes, what does he have to lose? Curt certainly won't speak with _him_.

Manuel holds his hands on either side of his mouth and calls out to Curt.

"Senor Curt!"

Curt turns. His face is hard.

Manuel speaks to him in English.

"Please sir, may I have a word with you, if you don't mind?"

Curt remains and yells back.

"Why?"

"It's important, please."

Curt slowly, reluctantly approaches, standing aside and crossing his arms.

"What, do you need money or something?" He points to Brian. "He's got all of it. I have nothing."

Manuel laughs.

"Actually, on the contrary, you have something more important than money or possessions. Much more. You have love."

Curt glares at Brian unhappily and snaps at him.

"What the fuck is this? You fucking talked to the guy? I'm gonna be ambushed now while I'm on a boat and can't get away?"

Manuel addresses Curt.

"Sir, I would appreciate if you would at least look at me when I address you. Your friend is beside himself with sorrow and shame. It was me who asked him what was the matter. He didn't want me to speak with you, actually. It was my request that we speak."

"Why? Why should I talk to you? What business is this of yours?"

Manuel smiles.

"As I was telling your friend Brian, I have a son who is gay, who I'm very proud of, and myself, I've been married 32 years, very happily so."

Curt throws his hands up in the air.

"Ya, whatever, fantastic for you. Congratulations. I should care about this, why?"

"You should care because you are young, and the young need to be reminded that they aren't the first people to go through life's trials. Often there are others who have come before who have been through the same things."

"Ya? So your wife sucked you off when you were sleeping, against your wishes, violated you? Is that it?"

"I would appreciate if you didn't use such vulgarity on my boat. I believe I've been quite kind to you and your friend, in offering you a lift as I have. It's a small thing to ask for in turn, is it not?"

Curt considers this a moment, and nods.

"Ya. Sorry." He looks at Brian. "I'm a little pissed off at the moment."

Manuel points.

"At your friend, yes I understand. Curt, you and Brian remind me of my wife and myself when we were first married. I was a very impatient young man in those days, with a quick temper, like yourself. And I was also very interested in sex, as young men are. I would not leave my wife alone. To me there was nothing wrong with this, it was natural, and in those days, your wife did as you said. But it got to the point where she broke down finally, and confessed to me that she felt that I must not love her, that I'd only married her for sex, since we were engaging in it so frequently. She said she'd become so depressed over it that she wanted to leave me.

Women, especially then, not like today, were trained to view things like sex and lust as bad, and my wife was no different. But when I convinced her that I loved her for who she was, and that my sexual interest was the physical embodiment of that love, which was genuine, she understood that I was sincere, and that it was a compliment to her, in fact, that I could not stay away. From that point on, she understood, and she was flattered, and pleased, and she began to enjoy herself."

Curt speaks. He sounds bored.

"Sorry. I'm not trying to be rude. I'm glad you worked it out with your wife. I just don't see what this has to do with me."

"Curt, number one, you are a man. Men don't need to have lust explained to them. Men, especially young men like you and your friend, are filled with lust. It's something you have to battle all the time, and sometimes … you will lose that battle. It's just nature's way.

Number two, it never hurts to remind ourselves that lust and love and sex are incredibly complex emotions that are easily misunderstood, and can easily cause pain and heartache. They don't always gel terribly well, they don't always happen when we want them to, or when we are ready, or even at the same time. But they are gifts, and we should accept and respect them, rather than fear or question them.

Number three, and this is most important, the longer you are with someone, the greater the likelihood you will fail them, the greater the chances of making mistakes, terrible ones, sometimes, no matter how good your intentions, no matter how great and true your love. Because we are human, and not perfect. What you don't do, what compounds and amplifies whatever the original mistake was, is to hurriedly throw away all that is good simply because of a natural human failing. We must learn to forgive, because sooner or later, we will be the one needing to be forgiven, ourselves. It is inevitable."

Curt says nothing. It's hard to judge what he's thinking.

"And the last thing I wanted to say was that the young, because they haven't lived yet, are often unaware of how rare a thing true love is. If one is fortunate enough to be blessed with it, one should be careful to recognize it for the miracle that it is. It is something worth fighting for, and worth forgiving for."

Manuel pauses, and laughs good naturedly.

"There, there is my speech, for what it's worth. I'm sorry to have taken you away from the views. It is quite a lovely day- a good day to be a fisherman. I hope my English was tolerable."

"No, it was very good," Curt replies politely.

Manuel smiles.

"It should be better. My wife has been teaching me for 30 years. She's American."

"She's American? What state is she from?"

"Michigan."

Curt leaps up.

"Jesus Christ! Where in Michigan ?"

"Um, what was just a small village back then, but is much larger and busier now. A place called Ann Arbor."

Curt jerks his head in Brian's direction and the two share an astonished laugh. Curt then approaches Manuel and shakes his hand.

"I think we were meant to be on your boat today. I think it was fate."

Manuel smiles. "I am glad."

Curt turns to Brian. The two whisper softly and walk to the other end of the boat.


	24. On This Bone Marrow Level

When we are deposited at the dock, I'm glowing, and I'm sure if you look at me just right, you can see it. It's a warm, deep beautiful orange, like the rays of the island's sunsets, quieting, soothing, healing, something you want to fall down into and stay inside of forever.

What I did was wrong. It was a terrible failing on my part that I still can't quite believe, but as Manuel so wisely pointed out, it's truly the love that matters. We will stumble on the way, we will fall. We know this well by now. And we know the love will be there, waiting. Love, as Manuel pointed out, is patient.

On the walk back home, we are hand in hand, discussing it all.

"We're new to each other, Brian. We should be banging each other every second, and here I am slamming on the brakes when nature is telling us to go, go, go."

"But there was a reason for it. There was a beautiful reason. I don't want to give up on that. Despite what I did." I look at him. "I'm so horrified by it. I'm so sorry, Curt."

He squeezes my hand.

"I can't, it's just, it was just a lot to ask of you, of both of us, that's all."

"But I still want it for you, so much."

He sighs.

"So do I." He stops and turns to me. "My body still needs to heal, Brian."

"I know." I lean, and kiss him softly. "So when you fall off the horse, you get back up on it."

"So we just … start over?"

I shrug. "Why not? We can consider it a bump in the road. We've still got what, 7 days? A week." I grin. "Plenty of time for us to be driven up the bloody wall again, while we wait."

He smiles shyly. He swings our hands gently back and forth between us. He whispers.

"Actually … what if … what if we … I mean, considering that we sorta did it already, … we sorta cheated … what if we start fresh … start the clock over again … only in an hour?"

His eyes sparkle in the sun.

"Maybe a little bit of, y'know, make-up sex."

We laugh softly.

"We really are absolutely dreadful at this waiting business."

I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it.

"Manuel's son is coming to pick us up at 5, though."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know, my watch is dead; but I think maybe about 3:30." I grin. "But it's best we hurry home -to find out for sure."

He breaks off into a trot.

"Yes, we must be punctual."

I follow along. He turns, jogging backwards.

"First one home gets to be on top," and takes off like a shot.

I run laughing after him, reaching for his backpack.

"Not fair- you're 10 times fitter than me!"

Just as I'm grasping the strap he picks up a burst of speed and is a half block ahead before I realize it. He turns, laughing, and calls back.

"Come on, Demon! Where's your appetite!"

I sprint up to him. Before I've caught my breath he grabs my hand and pulls me behind him the last half block, passing homes where people must surely notice the two white men running full bore, hand in hand.

Finally we make it to the base of my very long driveway, doubled over and gasping for air.

"Okay … first one … to the door–" And he is off. I lunge for the back of his belt, slow him down midway there, and sprint past. He calls after me. "Your fly's down!"

I burst out laughing and lose steam. He goes to sail by but turns at the last second, running backwards, and grabs my arm, pulling us to the door together.

We collapse against it, kissing and gasping as I fumble shakily for my keys.

"Hurry the fuck up," he whispers in that ungodly gravel tone.

"We still don't know who won," I giggle.

"Open that door and I'll show you."

We burst through, kissing madly, tearing hungrily at each other, spinning round in a sort of bizarre sexual waltz, attempting, without losing lip contact, to make our way to the couch one room over, or perhaps the big overstuffed chair, or even, the carpeted floor.

We never make it.

I glance over.

"Oh FUCK, it's 4:42 ! We don't have ti–"

Without hesitating, he turns me round in place and rips at the waistband, tearing the zipper clear from it's seam. He hisses into my ear.

"Lube ?"

_"Curt, we don't have ti–!"_

_"–LUBE ! ?"_

I point. My hand is trembling, as is my voice.

_"Bottom drawer!"_

He lunges for it, and in his impatience, forgets to remove the cap. No matter, he squeezes so hard it pops off anyway, and a big glop hits the floor with an audible slap. He rubs himself quickly with the rest, tosses the tube across the floor, yanks my hips straight back, and pushes me against the fridge.

I fumble for a hand hold. My fingers find the indentation behind the doors and dig into the soft rubber. I brace myself. We haven't time for slow and gradual, and right now I doubt he's capable of it, anyway.

For a split second there is the coolness of the gel against me, and then I suck in air as he pushes inward. The pain shoots directly up my spine; piercing enough that I cry out.

He whispers hoarsely.

"Sorry, my baby."

A surge of euphoria goes through me. I cough-laugh.

"Oh god, keep going. Don't you dare stop."

I grit my teeth, hold my breath and press my face into the coolness of the metal as he buries himself deep. The pain has almost completely numbed my backside and I can't see for the tears, but as he begins moving, my cock, ever selfish, ever convinced that it's my most important organ, that I'm a mere appendage to it, leaps to attention in glee and mirth.

He rears back and …

BANG!

My hips bounce off the fridge, the contents of which shake about violently.

"Oh god! Oh, Curt–"

BANG! BANG!

"OH! UHH!", I gasp. My voice is instantly an octave higher. "But Curt–!"

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

I struggle to hang on as the fridge dances about on the floor and every item on top, bags of chips, boxes of cereal, delicately weaved decorative Spanish baskets, goes flying.

"Curt–!,"

BANG!

"–wait–"

BANG!BANG!

"–but–oh god! The–"

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

"–Oh OH! UHHH! But, the–!"

"–UH! UH! UH! UH! UH! UH! OH FUCK! The WINE, Curt!" I gasp crazily. "The bottle's inside- the one for Manuel, it will break!"

In a flash, I'm grabbed extra tight, and pulled away so I can reach inside for the rescue, or actually, um, no … I'm, I'm being … lifted, turned and carried, still joined to him, over to the bloody kitchen table.

The hand placed firmly on the back of my neck, the feel of which sends shivers straight to my cock, presses me downward.

I scramble to find something, anything, to hang onto on this smooth flat surface. Damn table's too long to reach the far end, and just about exactly too wide for my outstretched hands. Fuck. In a house specially designed to be sex-friendly, here is something my designers and engineers overlooked.

Regardless, there isn't time to ponder, for … Here It Comes.

BANG!BANG!

The table rattles beneath me.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

It rattles violently and jumps 3 feet. The flower vase and fruit bowl crash to the floor.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

Yes, an honest to goodness banging here.

And then, to make matters worse, somewhere inside of all those bangs, he reaches underneath and … oh god, …

BANG! STROKE! BANG! STROKE! BANG!

The kitchen chairs shake and shimmy, all four eventually tipping straight backwards.

BANG!STROKE!BANGBANGBANG!STROKESTROKESTROKE!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG! STROKE!STROKE!BANG!

Through it all, I scream, cry, swear, grunt, gasp, squeal, screech, sob, beg, plead, pout, thank him, call out his name a half dozen times, and if it made a sound, I would be heard drooling, because I am even doing that, onto the table top, which is already smeared with our sweat. As a result I have even less grip, as my hands and arms slide and skid in the slickness, even as he keeps righting and repositioning me.

BANG! SLIP,SLIDE BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG! SLIP,SLIDE,SLIP,SLIDE

Finally, in a moment borne out of frustration over my inability to keep still, he leans upright, impatiently yanks both my arms back, and pins them together, in place, directly behind me.

What it does for him is practical- it provides a more solid, immovable target.

What it does for me is to send me straight off into the sexual stratosphere.

* * *

><p>Dear Curt,<p>

When you make me prone like this, when you pin and position exactly as you need me, exactly as it pleases you, when you are impatient and aggressive and rough and you seek immediate relief via my body, when you spread me, push me down, compress my lungs and lift my hips, forcing my bum up and out in this lewd manner, with it's exaggerated, upward curve of my spine, expressly so as to ease the way for you; when I in turn struggle and squirm in the small space that I'm allowed, precisely so that it will cause you to renew and tighten your grip on me; when we're having this conversation, speaking to each other on this bone marrow level, tapping directly into the primal as we are, the dizzying, the mind splitting, the magical, the magnificent, the unspeakable, unbearable, ethereal, the intensively erotic, the confusing, dangerous, sinful, filthy, droolingly delicious mess that this is …

Do you understand that you own me? That it makes me yours? That I want only to fall at your feet? To crawl to you and shadow you like a hatched chick does it's mum? Do you understand the degree to which it feeds me? Answers deep, ancient cravings and wettest of wet dreams, this unceremonious Taking of a Bottom By His Top ?

* * *

><p>In the kitchen, we're at the point where I can stand no more. With the next few strokes, I know it, and tell him so, announcing out loud that I'm coming, so that we can both hear it, after which, I do, with a ragged cry, spurting beneath us, onto the tile floor.<p>

Shortly thereafter, with a final, particularly deep thrust, he calls out; it's a strangled, anguished shout, after which, he pulls my arms free, and stretches his own out on top of them, protectively, above my head, panting hard into my neck.

I glance. The clock reads 4:47.

As we lay together in this rumpled wet pile, gasping for breath, our flesh sticky and slick, our clothes torn and stained, the sweat from his scalp, from his face, dripping down onto my neck and pooling up on the table, I'm flooded with the most incredible feelings, of love, of peace, of contentment and devotion, of a deep, natural satisfaction. The desire to stay exactly where I am, exactly how we are, is overwhelming. I'm desperate, suddenly, not to move from this beautiful powerless place beneath him, where he's told me with his body how he craves me, how it drives him to do things he is powerless himself to stop.

We say nothing. The atmosphere in the room crackles with electricity, with passion, with a heartstoppingly beautiful energy. It needs no words.

As his breathing slows, he kisses my cheek and goes to stand.

I want to bawl.

"Curt, wait."

He whispers. One hand softly caresses my back.

"Brian, our ride's coming."

"I don't want it to. I'm so upset. I don't want to move from here."

He leans down and kisses me.

"I know, my baby. Neither do I."

* * *

><p>As we pull our bodies reluctantly apart, I swear there is an audible 'swach', a soft suction sound, like a kiss, we are so sticky. We look at each other with weighty lids, with slow, sated grins, grasp hands and turn for the stairs. We can't exactly show up at Manuel's like this.<p>

It is at this precise moment that the doorbell rings, 13 minutes early.

We scramble, nearly tripping and bumping into each other.

"Just a minute!," I shout, in Spanish, in the direction of the front door.

"Oh Curt, we've left it too late." I turn to grab for the railing to run up and quickly change, when I spot them, not ahead of us through the small front door window, but behind us, at the back- kitchen door, it's full length screen wide open.

"Fuck," we whisper, in unison, under our breath. Curt stands behind me, and quickly tucks himself back into his pants. "Oh well hi!," I exclaim with fake enthusiasm, "er, hola!", as I approach the door. "Por favor venido adentro!" ("Please come in!")

There are two men, who smile cheerfully, as they enter.

"It's okay, we speak English good. No need for Spanish." One, the younger, who has to be Manuel's son, turns to an older man, who must be his boyfriend. "This is Miguel, I am David."

I step back into the room. I announce our names, pointing to myself first, noticing that the spot where my finger makes contact is damp, and then turning to touch Curt's shoulder, which I find sopping. Suddenly, as their eyes travel, first over us, then the room, I'm acutely aware of the split in my pants, and go to hide behind Curt, as they survey the effects of the tornado that it appears must surely have just hit.

How to explain the cockeyed fridge, it's door hanging half open, the cereal boxes on their side, contents spewed everywhere, the fine woven baskets tumbled and tossed about, the broken vase and fruit bowl and smashed tangerines, the upended chairs, and perhaps strangest of all, the screwy placement, right up against the sink, of the kitchen table, whose top appears to be puddled up with something … wet and … dripping? And then, oh holy mother of god, there is the large plop of greasy lube over there, the small spray of fresh white foam on the tile over here, and then, most tellingly, the crumpled up tube, which according to the brightly colored label is 'PERSONAL LUBRICANT', not 3 feet from where they both stand.

Their eyes raise to ours.

I gulp. I cough. I clear my throat and speak from behind Curt's shoulder, my face purple.

"Sorry, the place is … a dreadful mess. My cleaning lady … um …"

Curt turns and takes my hand.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable." He pulls me up the stairs. "We'll be right down."

We scurry quickly to the bedroom, peeling out of our clothes.

"How in the hell are they going to make themselves comfortable? The chairs are all tipped!"

"What else was I supposed to say? 'Step into the living room, and try not to slip in the come'?"

I go to change into fresh clothes but he drags me into the shower first.

"We stink! We have to run water over ourselves, at least!"

"Curt, we can't make them wait! Not in that horror show kitchen!"

He giggles.

"You think this is funny? First people we meet on the island and they think we're demented perverts!"

We towel off quickly, and go to dress.

"Brian, do you think those guys have never done it over the kitchen table ?"

"Curt, it looks like we FUCKED the kitchen table! And no! I don't think they have! They look … respectable, to me. Normal."

"I don't do respectable. Or normal." He chuckles. "But I might, if they offered."

"Which?"

"Either. Well, maybe the younger." He grins. "I smell a bottom."

"The other guy's hot though. How old do you think he is?"

We straighten our clothes and approach the top landing.

"I don't know, why don't you ask him? They pretty much already know everything there is to know about us."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's admissions: <strong>_

1) Yes, the 'bang's are completely cheesy, but I could help myself not.

2) Yes, it's getting a bit ridiculous how our boys cannot seem to stick with their celibacy pledge, no matter how sincere and heartfelt.

I'm mad for the whole notion of these two stunning, highly sexed creatures alone together in a private Mediterranean beach house, only to have them not only fall head over heels in love, but of all things, to then go ahead and fall for the hopelessly uncool, old fashioned idea of _waiting_ - of _saving themselves - _two rock stars ? ? I mean, it's nuts - ridiculous, and maybe silly, yet so sweet, it was irresistible. I love the earnestness of it and the tension it creates - they _are_ serious about it - they really _do _want to be good. I love watching them try, and I love watching them fail. Stay tuned, though.

For a while to this point I had had these lovely and delicious twin images of them running up a public street holding hands (and what anyone looking out a window would think of _that_), and another image of them racing home absolutely full bore in order to have sex- being completely out of breath when they got to the door, Brian fumbling for the keys in his excitement and impatience, and the two of them bursting through the door- practically knocking it down. I didn't know where this was going to fit in the story, and it landed here.

It was fun writing the near destruction of Brian's neat, orderly and very expensively equipped and designed custom kitchen (after running all the way home only to be faced with a literal deadline, Curt had to make quick work of it, after all …), as well as the two strangers witnessing it moments after it's destruction, and it being obvious what had just gone down in order to have _caused_ such mayhem ...

Anyway, thank you for reading. Remember that feedback not only absolutely rules, but is good for digestion.


	25. Beeline

Curt and I slide into the back seat of Miguel's sedan, and we pull away.

"So my father tells me you are musician?", David turns in his seat, towards me.

"Um, well, yes," I point a finger back and forth between us. "We both are."

"Oh, the both of you? I did not realize. What instrument do you play?"

"Well I play sort of … sing, and play guitar."

"Me too."

"Ah, my little brother, he likes the guitar. Perhaps you can help him with his lessons?"

"Sure."

David addresses Curt.

"My father tells me you are American."

"Ya."

David grins.

"Michigan- you have no idea how excited my mother is. We have grown up hearing of Michigan."

"I can't wait to talk with her about it."

"Yes, it is a small world, no?"

Curt nods.

"Right. Tiny."

Miguel pipes up, looking into the rear view mirror as he speaks to Curt.

"So is this how you two met? You played in a musical group?"

"Um, well, no. He and I were playing in separate bands on the same night, that's how we met."

"And you ran into each other?"

"Ya, pretty much."

David asks, grinning.

"You fell in love immediately?"

Curt and I exchange glances. He hesitates. "Um …"

I pipe in.

"Yes!"

We, all four, laugh.

David continues.

"Miguel and I," he turns and smiles at him, "he was my teacher, when I was, how do you say, in high school, but we did not get together until later." He laughs softly. "He has a daughter almost my age."

Miguel pipes in.

"Oh, well, she is 19, and you are 23, so …"

Curt's eyes widen.

"You have a _kid _?"

The car is silent for a beat. I fidget awkwardly. It's hard to know what's considered rude with people of a different culture.

Miguel answers.

"When I was very young, I married. I did not know myself then. In those days in Spain, no one was homosexual, even if you were. It was not allowed."

David looks at him.

"It's still not allowed."

"Well, but it is much better than it was. Your father, your family, are very understanding. My family was not. No one was."

He turns to speak in the mirror again.

"What about your family, Curt?"

Curt coughs.

"Um, well, they were not all that … understanding."

"But they accept you now?", David asks.

Curt fidgets.

"Oh, well … ya."

David smiles. "I am glad for you."

As we near the house, David tells us of the dinner.

"It is the second Friday of the month, and every second Friday my mother cooks a very large meal and we invite everyone, my two uncles and their families, some of my father's friends and their wives, people from the neighborhood, everyone!" He grins. "It is very festive. And my mother is an excellent cook."

"Well it was really very kind of your father to invite us."

The car pulls in front of what appears to my eyes to be a rather large home. A bit old, but clean and well kept.

We get out and walk toward the house. There is a large patio with a couple of oversized picnic tables pushed together, a very long table cloth, candles, and umbrellas, folded linen napkins, a couple of centerpieces, etc. Curt and I clasp hands and look at each other. It's much fancier than either of us had expected. I squeeze Curt's hand. He gets a bit nervous in big crowds, especially when, as the American, he's likely to draw some attention.

"It's not like on stage. I have my band with me and in a way, I can hide up there. People aren't making conversation with you and looking you right in your eye."

A woman and a younger girl exit the house carrying plates. The woman breaks into a huge broad grin and calls to David excitedly as she sets down the dinnerware.

"Introduce us!"

She's standing before me smiling ear to ear.

"Mama, this is Brian, from England."

I can't help but detect a slight lessening of her smile. She thought I was the American. Still, she is gracious and welcoming, leaning forward to take both of my hands and exchange sideways cheek kisses- very European.

"I'm Maria. We're very excited by our guests tonite. We're thrilled in fact; we hardly ever have foreigners at the house. I've never been to England, but I would dearly love to some day."

I hand her the wine bottle. It survived the afternoon's tryst nicely.

"OH, thank you so much!"

She kisses me on the cheek again. It's as if she's never been brought a gift. She genuinely seems a peach. Very attractive too. Slim, blond, fit. If she's this much of a knockout now, I can fully understand Manuel's dilemma in the early days of their marriage.

She turns to Curt and the smile expands.

"Mama, this is Curt–"

"–From Michigan!" She shrieks, and grasps his hands tightly, bursting out laughing, as do we all.

Curt smiles and blushes visibly.

"Ya."

"Boy am I gonna talk YOUR head off tonite!"

General laughter.

They do the sideways kiss, and she steps back to survey us.

"David, your father reeled in a couple of good looking boys here. Are either of you spoken for?"

David frowns and wags his finger back and forth between us.

"Mama! Stop this talk! They are _together_!"

She covers her mouth and laughs softly.

"Oh, I forgot. Sorry! I've been in Spain for most of my life now, but I've never been able to completely shake the loudmouth American in me." She looks at David. "I'll be good, I promise."

He kisses her forehead and walks over to Miguel, who sits at a side table in the corner.

Maria turns to the young girl, who as best I can tell is about 13. Pretty thing, petite, with dark curly hair, taking after her father.

"Bella, honey, this is Curt and Brian."

The girl looks down shyly and whispers hello.

"I have another one, someplace on the premises." She turns to Bella. "Honey, will you go and fetch Juan? Bring him outside, please."

The girl turns and runs into the house.

"Um, can we help at all?"

"No, no. Please, sit and be comfortable. It's a gorgeous evening." She enters the house.

Curt takes out a cigarette. He's clearly nervous.

I whisper to him.

"Y'okay?"

"Mm. See you've never really seen this side of me. It's embarrassing. I'm insecure as fuck."

My heart melts.

"Curt, you have no idea how amazing you are. It'll be fine. _She _loves you already. Plus … I mean, you look incredibly beautiful right now, just so you know."

He frowns.

"Oh well, good. Hopefully my 'beauty' will carry me through the night."

David calls to us.

"Please! Come sit with us. My mother will be unhappy with me that you stand."

We walk over and take seats at the small table. Miguel puffs on a short caramel colored cigarette. Just then, David's sister appears, with her younger brother in tow. David speaks to her.

"Bella … introduce your brother to our guests."

The boy is 12 or so. Dirty blond hair, pale eyes, obviously getting his coloring from his mother. Very sweet faced. A budding looker.

Bella turns formally to the boy.

"Este es mi hermano–"

David interrupts.

"–Bella, _English_, for our guests."

She blushes, and starts over, speaking slowly, with a very thick accent.

"This is my brother, Juan."

David turns to us.

"Juan is interested in music." He turns to Juan. "They play music for their craft, Juan."

Juan squints at his brother, not understanding.

"Músicos."

("Musicians.")

Juan looks excitedly at us both. He speaks better than his sister, but not much.

"Rock y roll?"

All smile.

I answer.

"Yes. It's our favorite, er, muy preferido."

The boy grins and nods his head.

David speaks.

"Juan, they might help you with your guitar later, okay?"

The boy's face lights up. He nods and runs back into the house, with Bella following close.

* * *

><p>As David discusses his family, and tells us of his other sister who has started college on the mainland, I take the opportunity to observe Miguel out of the corner of my eye. Up close, here in the bright daylight, he has the most amazing set of big, dark eyes, with crows feet at the edges. His thick, close cropped chestnut brown hair has specks of gray at the temples. The word I want to use for him is 'distinguished', if it didn't make him sound so bloody antiquated. I'm guessing he's maybe twice David's age, which, I mean, IS antiquated. I can't imagine being with someone that old, but at the same time, he's such an obvious top, both by virtue of the age difference, and just by his demeanor, which is slow and measured, that I would hardly say no.<p>

I have no idea how Curt feels about him, but I'll be dying to talk about it later, when we get home.

David, by contrast, looks even younger than his 23 years. He has a round, boyish face, with incredibly long eyelashes and thick wavy dark hair. He's a bit on the slim side, while Miguel is definitely more the rugged.

Maria and Bella exit the house, carrying large pots to the table.

"Mama, you don't want help?"

"No, honey. Stay where you are, with our guests."

Miguel calls to her.

"Hello, Maria."

She doesn't look. She nods, and whispers his name as she walks by our table, and back into the house. Curt and I exchange glances.

Miguel laughs and turns to us.

"Even after all this time, Maria dislikes me. I'm not good enough for her son."

"She doesn't dislike you."

"Of course she does, David. I, how do you say, robbed her cradle."

Miguel addresses us again.

"The father though, we get along very well." He laughs to himself. "Otherwise, I probably would not be allowed in the house."

David looks displeased.

"Miguel, let us not discuss such things in front of our guests."

Maria returns with Bella, and now Juan, bringing yet more food to the table, before leaving again.

Miguel speaks, addressing us both, but looks at Curt.

"So, you are fans of rock and roll. Have you been to the rock club in town?"

"Yes, just briefly," I offer. "We opened the door to look inside, but then we left."

"It was too loud," Curt adds. I resist the urge to burst out laughing.

"So you have never really been inside? How strange." He's still looking at Curt. "It seems it would be a place you would enjoy."

It's getting harder and harder to ignore the attention Miguel gives Curt, and the growing edge, it seems, to his words.

* * *

><p>Bella exits the house and carries a large plate of salad in her arms.<p>

"Careful!" David yells.

"Shut up!" she answers.

We laugh.

Miguel calls to her.

"Bella, you're getting prettier every day. You will marry me when you are older, yes?"

"No!", she snaps, and runs inside.

"She IS getting very pretty, David. I hope you are watching out for her."

David is sullen.

"She's not interested in boys, yet."

"But they are interested in her, I would bet. Or soon will be." He turns. "Right, Curt?"

Curt's head snaps round. He's blows out the drag he's just inhaled.

"Hmm? I-I wouldn't know."

"No? You like girls, don't you?"

Curt looks at Miguel for the first time.

David is agitated. "Miguel, what are you talking about? Curt is–"

I cough.

"We're both bisexual."

David looks at me.

"I'm married, myself."

"You are married?"

"Yes, but we're very … my wife and I are very … estranged. Practically divorced."

David looks down. He seems uncomfortable.

"I see."

There is an awkward pause. Miguel stubs out his cigarette and places a hand on David's upper arm.

"Why don't you give your guests a tour of the place?"

David stands. "Yes, of course."

* * *

><p>We step into the house behind him.<p>

"I am sorry for Miguel. He is a good man but tonite there is something bothering him. Normally, he is very friendly."

We are given the tour of the entire structure, which seems much bigger on the inside, then on our way back through the kitchen, in walks Manuel, arms spread wide, grinning.

"My boys!"

We each hug him, like prodigal sons.

"I am so pleased you have come! My wife will fill your stomachs until you cannot walk!" He bellows out a laugh.

Maria joins him. He wraps an arm round her back.

"Yes, they'll be so stuffed, they won't be able to move. They'll be stuck to their chairs, and captive for our discussion!"

"Michigan!" Manuel shouts.

We laugh. She turns to him.

"Manny, help me serve, please."

She turns to us.

"David, seat your guests. Dinner is nearly ready."

* * *

><p>By the time dinner is served, there are at least 20 guests aside from us, each of whom greets us excitedly, but especially Curt, as the American, and fellow Michegoneon to Maria. I watch, protectively, as he seems to get shyer and shyer with every introduction. Eventually however, once we are sat down to feast, the conversation and laughter up and down the long table seems to relax him, along with the presence of a doting Maria to his left, and blushing Bella to his right. I smile over the sight of him flanked by two women, both of whom, it's rapidly becoming obvious, have developed a crush. He does look particularly radiant tonite, and in his shyness, especially boyish and sweet.<p>

The meal is extensive, and extremely delicious. Roast of lamb, chicken, mashed and boiled potatoes, warm tangy squash, asparagus, mango salsa, homemade stuffing, corn on the cob, homemade bread and dinner rolls, plenty of wine and beer, and cider for the children. And for desert, an array of homemade pies. Interesting to note, no fish.

The talk at the table however, _is _of fish, the take in the ocean these days (abundant), the town's restrictions on same, the politics of the whole thing, etc. I am asked about life in London, and a few guests share their own stories of visits to the English countryside.

Curt meanwhile, is hunkered down the whole time with Maria in deep conversation about their beloved state, and most of all city, Ann Arbor.

One guest, an older man who I believe to be Manuel's brother, mock-shouts in their direction.

"Maria! You are hogging the American!"

Laughter.

She puts her hand on Curt's shoulder and turns briefly away to snap at the man.

"Yes Pedro, I am! What are you gonna do about it?"

The table erupts.

As my eyes wander, I spy Miguel and David. The latter laughs, while the former doesn't, though his eyes are solidly on Curt. The look he gives is hard to interpret. It seems to be one of confrontation, challenge. I turn my head in Curt's direction, and see that he's too wrapped up in Maria to notice. I look back at Miguel, whose steely gaze hasn't wavered. Then I recognize it.

Determination, and desire.

* * *

><p>After dinner, the table is cleared. Maria has brought out a photo album to show Curt her girlhood in Ann Arbor. He seems thrilled, and the two smile and laugh together and enjoy much private discussion.<p>

I sit briefly with Miguel, Manuel and David. When Juan wanders by, his father addresses him.

"Juan, go and get su guitarra."

"Si, papa."

And he's off. David smiles and looks at me.

"He doesn't need to be told twice. He will want to play a song for the crowd." He looks at his father. "And then papa will serenade us with Spanish love songs."

Manuel grins.

"Yes. I play a bit of classical guitar. Not very well, but my voice is strong."

"Wow, I didn't know."

"Yes, and then you will sing for us," Manuel adds.

I'm horrified.

"Um, oh well, I only know … awful pop songs. Really, they aren't very good."

"But it is your craft!", David pipes in earnestly.

"Oh, well, yes, but–"

Miguel jumps in.

"–What about your friend Curt? He can sing, no?"

"Oh, well yes, but he, his tastes are–."

"It is of no concern," Manuel says. "We would like music from our guests."

"Yes, definitely," Miguel adds, eyes firmly on Curt.

* * *

><p>First, there is Juan. The guests sit, relaxed, sipping wine, and listen attentively to his carefully fingered piece. It's a bit awkward, too fast, but heartfelt. The look of concentration on his face is wonderfully sweet. Afterwards, the guests applaud enthusiastically.<p>

Next, the guitar is handed off to his father, who performs a quite beautiful classical piece, sung with reverence, after which, Maria stands and kisses him on the mouth.

"Lovely, Manuel!"

Next, the guitar is handed to me. It's immediately strange, as for the first time this evening, I understand Curt's nervousness, for the 20 plus eyes upon me feel more penetrating than a crowd of 20,000, by virtue of the intimacy of the setting, I suppose. Still, I manage to eek out a not too badly botched version of a lovely old Irish hymn my grandmother used to sing when I was a boy. At one point in the process I catch sight of Curt. His eyes are extremely soft, warm, and loving, as he looks back. By the time the song ends, and the crowd is clapping, I'm sure out of politeness, my face is purple.

And finally, it's Curt's turn, with Maria his biggest champion. She holds her hands on either side of her mouth as he sits before us. "Sing the Michigan fight song!"

Curt looks down and responds shyly as he positions himself on the stool.

"Um, I don't know it. Sorry, Maria."

Laughter.

"What, then?" She shouts good naturedly.

"Um, y'know, I don't know. I haven't played in a long while. Um, but I've had a couple of songs in my head of late." He fidgets nervously. "Not sure which one to do."

"Do both!" She shouts.

He smiles.

"Um, well," he laughs, "lemme try one, and then we'll see. This one's a pretty good song, not Spanish, or classical, though, sorry."

He looks down and begins plucking out a particularly lovely intro, which breaks down suddenly, messily.

"Sorry." He takes a breath. His face colors. "I've never played it before."

Manuel, arm around Maria, speaks softly.

"It is okay, senor. Please start again."

I'm holding my breath for him. The sight of my angel boy, who can so easily knock a crowd back on it's feet, nervous and struggling …

He grasps the guitar, shuts his eyes, opening them only briefly at times to watch his fingers change position, and begins singing softly, with a beauty, with an ethereal quality I've never once heard from him before. It pierces my soul.

_I was dreaming of the past._  
><em>And my heart was beating fast,<em>  
><em>I began to lose control,<em>  
><em>I began to lose control.<em>

_I didn't mean to hurt you,_  
><em>I'm sorry that I made you cry,<em>  
><em>I didn't want to hurt you,<em>  
><em>I'm just a jealous guy.<em>

_I was feeling insecure,_  
><em>You night not love me any more,<em>

_I was shivering inside,_  
><em>I was swallowing my pain.<em>

_I didn't mean to hurt you,_  
><em>I'm sorry that I made you cry,<em>  
><em>I didn't want to hurt you,<em>  
><em>I'm just a jealous guy.<em>

My eyes fill up. The flood of emotions is hard to contain. My heart bursts nearly out of my chest, with pride, with love, with hurt, even, over the boy in him. Mostly though, I'm completely and utterly blown to bits. First, I had no idea- the sheer beauty and delicacy with which he sings is again, something I've simply never heard out of him before. Stupidly, I didn't know he was capable. Also, I mean, he can sing like this, and he chooses not to? We're going to have a serious discussion about this later.

Secondly, the subject matter! It may be Lennon's words, but it's pure Curt. Raw, and real. Heartbreaking in it's nakedness and vulnerability. And also, coming from such a small place, a position of such powerlessness, and unashamedly so. You absolutely cannot look the other way.

Jesus, I want to run up and throw my arms around him.

As he finishes, he opens his eyes and looks down. There is a pregnant pause, after which, the guests burst into wild applause, led by Maria, who shoots to her feet, whistling loudly with two fingers in her mouth.

"More, more!" She shouts, stamping her feet.

Bella, next to her, shouts for more as well, and I with them.

His face colors further. He looks at me. We share a giant grin.

"Okay, okay," he laughs softly. "Um, this is the other song I had in my head. It's a favorite of mine."

He repositions his hands on the guitar neck and sings almost in a whisper.

_"After all the jacks are in their boxes,_  
><em>and the clowns have all gone to bed,<em>  
><em>you can hear happiness staggering on down the street,<em>  
><em>footprints dress in red.<em>  
><em>And the wind whispers Mary.<em>

_A broom is drearily sweeping_  
><em>up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.<em>  
><em>Somewhere a Queen is weeping,<em>  
><em>somewhere a King has no wife.<em>

_And the wind, it cries Mary._

_The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow_  
><em>And shine their emptiness down on my bed,<em>  
><em>The tiny island sags downstream<em>  
><em>'Cos the life that they lived is dead."<em>

He smiles at Bella and sings to her.

_"And the wind screams BELLA."_

She blushes and grins and turns her face into her mother's arm.

He finishes the last verse.

_"Will the wind ever remember_  
><em>The names it has blown in the past,<em>  
><em>And with it's crutch, it's old age and it's wisdom<em>  
><em>It whispers, 'No, this will be the last.'<em>

He looks up at Maria and smiles for the final line.

_"And The Wind Cries MARIA."_

She whoops and laughs softly, clutching Manuel's arm. The song ends as it began, with a pretty slide-guitar style riff, and the crowd jumps to it's feet, with several people approaching him personally.

I want to run up, push everyone away and shower him with kisses. Maria turns to me excitedly and grabs my hands.

"You are a lucky man, Brian! He's not only easy on the eyes, but plays beautifully, and sings like an angel!"

She and Manuel walk with me over to him. His smile is so wide, so serene, I want to cry. My hand cups his face and we kiss softly, and fold each other into a hug.

_"I love you,"_ I whisper. I go to pull away but he holds me a moment longer, and speaks into my ear. _"I'm so fucking happy right now, you have no idea."_

I pull back and look at him. His eyes are shining. Mine spill over with joy.

Maria turns to Manuel. "Oh, Manny, see how they're in love! It reminds me of us, back then!"

We look at Manuel and share a knowing smile.

Juan approaches Curt, who hands him the guitar.

"Juan, do you want the boys to show you things on your guitar now?"

"Si! Si!"

I volunteer, and sit with him at the side table. Various guests mill about, laughing, telling stories in Spanish, and sipping wine. The night is still young here.

Curt moves off into the far corner to smoke, and I notice that as soon as David exits the patio, Miguel makes a beeline.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note:<em>

The songs Curt sings are_ "Jealous Guy"_ by John Lennon, and _"Wind Cries Mary"_ by Jimi Hendrix.

Just to clarify, and not to be too defensive, but it dawned on me to establish that I was most definitely _not_ influenced by freaking _Twilight_ when selecting the name of Maria and Miguel's daughter, "Bella". I have an Aunt Bella, and that, and the fact that I found _Bella_ in a list of Spanish girls' names were the reasons I picked the name, thank you.


	26. Like You Can't Even Imagine

_Okay, dear readers - just wanted to say, this is one of my favorite chapters I've ever written, ever. I challenge any one of you to find this much _stuff - _emotional, physical_, _spiritual_, _romantic, dramatic, melodramatic, in any one chapter, anywhere - Austin, Dickens, Melville, Twain, Proust, Shelley - anywhere! Okay, I'm kidding about Proust! No seriously - it's just that there is so damned much in this fucking chapter that I even attempted several times to split it in two (even three) but those pesky words seemed to want to be kept together as a single mostly-harmonious unit, so who am I to argue ? _

_PS. Reviewing will make you rich !_

* * *

><p>In the corner, Curt upends his pack and a cigarette pops out. Miguel approaches.<p>

"May I have one?"

Curt lights the one dangling from his lips. He speaks after a pause.

"I doubt you'll like them; they're American. They'll taste funny to you."

Miguel looks at him.

"Actually, I am very much interested to try an American. To taste one."

Curt exhales the smoke, looks down, shakes his head, and laughs softly.

"_Wow _…," He looks off, squinting. "Isn't your boyfriend somewhere close by?"

"David is no concern of yours."

"Nor yours, either, apparently."

Miguel moves closer. His voice is sinister.

"I'm going to make you a deal, Senor Wild."

Curt looks up quickly.

"How the hell do you know my name?"

Miguel leans back and grins.

"You are famous in some circles, back in your part of the world, are you not, or rather, infamous?"

Curt looks at him.

"And you come to this tiny island for 2 weeks, an island of only 800 people, and you jump onstage at a local nightclub, and you don't expect people to find out?"

"How the hell do you know about that? Were you there? You're a little old."

Miguel laughs bitterly.

"I do not frequent such places. I heard it from someone I know. A girl, who eventually confessed, of a blonde American singer who took her to his home afterwards, and threw her against a wall."

Curt looks at him steely eyed, and inhales the smoke deeply.

"You forgot the part about the fucking."

Miguel glares.

"I can assure you, I have forgotten none of it. The girl I speak of is my daughter, Bianca."

Curt exhales and holds his gaze.

"You are very lucky she was not injured."

The shrug hides his nervousness.

"Ya."

Miguel moves closer.

"So here is what we are going to do about it. In 5 minutes, you will meet me upstairs at the rear bedroom to the house. It is no longer used."

Curt takes a drag and laughs out the smoke.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Manuel stares.

"What part of what I just said did you not understand? My English is not perfect, but I think it is quite clear what I'm saying."

"Jesus Christ, if you actually think …" he looks around and lowers his voice further, "if you actually think I'm gonna fuck you because I fucked your precious daughter, who by the way is a very hot, eager little number, you're completely fucking cracked! Go fuck your boyfriend, if you're that fucking horny."

Miguel glares.

"I see that you can sing beautifully, but your vocabulary is that of a foul-mouthed child."

Curt takes a drag and nods enthusiastically.

"Yes, I wallow in filth. But," he leans close and stares into Miguel's eyes, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, "let me tell you, it's your _daughter _who's got the foul mouth."

Miguel's eyes widen. He spits out his words.

"You are not only a vulgarian, but a liar."

Curt pauses, and grins.

"Ya, okay, she didn't blow me. She would have, though; it was about the only thing we didn't do."

Miguel's eyes turn hard.

"Senor Curt, let me explain something to you. My daughter is under the legal age, in Spain–."

"–Well then maybe she shouldn't go around shoving her tits in men's faces."

Miguel smiles.

"You are not as smart as I had expected, but then, not many junkies are."

"How the fuck do you–!"

"–I know much about you, Senor, more than I care to. I went to the club the next day and obtained your name- my daughter would not give it to me, and then I did some research. I found out the 'rock star' fouling our island is a nobody, a washed up junkie, a _loser_, as they say, on his last legs."

Curt blinks and fidgets.

"Meanwhile the father of the girl you fouled is a school teacher from a prominent local family, with a brother who is a detective with the island police. I could easily have you arrested and jailed for assault, or for violating my daughter, or both. I would do it tomorrow, however Bianca doesn't wish it."

He takes Curt's cig from him and brings it to his own lips for a long puff.

"She still likes you, for some reason. Finds you handsome."

Curt shrugs.

"I am. And I'm a killer fuck. Just ask her."

"That remains to be seen." Miguel exhales slowly. "You will meet me upstairs in 5 minutes and we will put this entire matter to rest. Or, I call my brother, and we will bring not only you, but your English boyfriend up on charges as well, since the assault took place in his house, in his presence." He stubs out the cig. "Your choice."

Curt watches him walks off, into the house.

* * *

><p>I spy Miguel storming off. Curt approaches, looking very jittery.<p>

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just … I don't feel so good, I'm just gonna–"

I shoot up out of my seat and palm his forehead.

"–Are you sick?"

"No, I just–"

"–Curt, you're shaking. And your forehead's damp. Are you sweating?"

"Brian, I'm okay. It's just … the wine. I'm gonna go lie down inside, okay?" He starts to walk off.

"Wait! I'll go with you."

I look down at Juan.

"Juan, can we continue this later?"

He snaps.

"NO, Brian, I said I'm ALRIGHT! Please. I don't wanna … ruin everything, okay? Just … stay here, with Juan. I might … I might take a quick nap."

He walks off.

* * *

><p>Curt's stomach churns uncomfortably as he ascends the stairs and walks down the long, narrow hall toward the only room with a mostly closed door. He stands outside it a moment, fighting his nerves, inhaling slowly in an effort to combat what feels like a pending hyperventilation fit. Finally, with a trembling hand, he pushes against the door and enters.<p>

A single dim lamp illuminates the small bedroom, which contains a twin bed, and an antique dresser, complete with attached mirror. It strikes Curt that it looks very like the furniture in Michael's house.

Miguel approaches.

"What kept you? I was about to pick up the phone." He moves in for a kiss. Curt whips his head away.

"_Fuck _you, fucking cunt, if you think I'm about to kiss you!"

"You kissed my daughter; you will kiss me."

"No I fucking won't!"

"Really, you are dimwitted, senor. You seem to feel you have some say in the matter. You don't. I will kiss you if I like. I will do whatever I like while we are in this room."

He leans close. Curt shoves him away.

"You said you wanted a taste of America."

He unzips, and pulls himself out.

"Here, it is. Take it."

Miguel looks down, moves towards Curt's neck and fingers him.

"Very nice. Larger than I'd pictured."

"Ya. You daughter loved it. She said I was HUGE compared to all the other–"

Miguel grasps tightly. Curt gasps.

"You lie once again. My daughter does not speak a word of English."

Curt whispers through a tight throat.

"She told me with her body."

Miguel rips Curt's pants from his hips and begins pawing at his shirt.

"Get undressed."

"No fucking way! You wanted to swallow cock- just do it!"

Miguel hisses at him.

"I believe I am the one making the decisions here. Get undressed, and do not make me ask again, or I pick up the phone, you understand? Because believe me, as much as I want you right now, I want you behind _bars_ much more."

Curt hesitates a beat, and seeing no way out of it nor wanting to delay things further, begins disrobing.

Miguel stands aside watching the shirt rise upward and off.

"Yes. Shirt, shoes, socks- _off_. Naked. Let me see the body that my daughter desires."

When finished, Miguel's eyes linger over Curt's form.

"You excite me tremendously."

Curt winces.

"Just make it quick and be done with it; _David _could easily–"

"–This is David's old room. He knows the door locks once it's shut. No one can get in unless it's opened from the inside, which isn't going to happen until I say." He pushes Curt backward against the dresser and hovers close. "Handsome American."

"But … Manuel, or Maria … it's their house–"

"–Maria knows we are up here."

Curt's brow knits. He squints.

"_What _?"

"She knows what I use this room for. It is why she does not like me. She has tried to tell David, but it only angers him. He refuses to believe."

Curt glares.

"What a disgusting snake you are."

Miguel smiles.

"Yes, and you can imagine what she will think of YOU now, her little Michigan boyfriend, cheating on her beloved son."

Curt swallows. His heart sinks. He feels incredibly anxious.

Miguel moves his face close.

Curt shoves him back. His voice shakes terribly.

"I said I'm NOT fucking kissing you!"

Miguel grins, and strokes Curt's jaw, running a soft hand down his chest.

"It is very sweet, how your voice trembles, how your whole body trembles, despite your macho words. I am incredibly turned on by the contradiction. But let me remind you of the terms here, and this will be the final such reminder. It is very simple: You will submit, or you and your boyfriend go to jail. Comprende? You want your boyfriend's entire career ruined? Sex with a minor? Physical assault of a teenaged girl? It would be easy, I assure you."

"He _didn't_—"

"No, but _you did_ and that is why we are here right now, is that not correct Senor Wild? That is why you are here, standing naked before me …"

Curt blinks hard, and swallows nervously.

"That is the pact we have made, correct ?"

Miguel's hands continue to roam over his torso and drop to encircle his penis. He whispers.

"And now I will kiss you and we will not have another word about it."

Curt shuts his eyes as the face nears his, as the lips make contact. It is what he did long ago, when he hooked for drug money, and it elicits the same feelings in him: of revulsion, a fierce disgust, and a desire for violence. He wants to bloody the lips with his fist. He wants to strangle the neck that is near his, but he realizes he must simply endure it, and then, in a few minutes, it will be over.

Thankfully, the kiss is brief, and Miguel has slid down his body, though he lingers over Curt's nipples, biting down hard enough to bruise. He slides further, and grasps the slightly stiffened flesh, speaking with a triumphant, sinister joy.

"You want this. You enjoy this. You lie even about that."

"No–!" The word catches in his throat as Miguel moves to take Curt roughly, allowing his teeth to graze the sensitive flesh. Curt finds himself writhing and gasping both from the intensely pleasing sensations that the human mouth can provide, and from discomfort. It's either purposeful, or Miguel is simply incredibly inept at blowjob basics … but he's sure it's the former.

Despite it all, to his deep shame, he feels himself harden and flush, and as Miguel's head bobs further and faster, his teeth now firmly secured behind puckered lips and hollowed cheeks, Curt's panting quickens. Within a minute, when he is on the very edge, cruelly, Miguel's hand lowers and grips the sac, which is particularly sensitive in this state. Curt fliches hard.

"For fouling my daughter, I hate your guts. And I will take particular pleasure in causing you pain and misery, which I can and will do, with the simplest twist of my hand. Or, you can ask me, or rather, beg me to make you come. In truth, the latter would arouse me more, and so that is what I prefer. But, just like coming up the stairs and entering this room, the choice is entirely yours, senor."

Curt's guts pitch and his stomach flips. He feels he wants to vomit. He shuts his eyes and speaks through gritted teeth.

"_Motherfucker _! Just _do_ it!"

* * *

><p>Juan plucks away at the new chords I've shown him. He's a sweet boy, but I'm so worried about Curt I can't concentrate. I have to go find him, to make sure he's alright.<p>

"Juan, I'll be right back, okay?"

"Si, senor."

I pass David.

"Brian, have you seen Miguel?"

"Sorry, no."

"Curt said he needed to lay down a moment, the wine, I guess, is it okay if I just go and …?"

"Of course; the bedrooms are upstairs."

I scoot past him and various guests to hurry into the house, tiptoeing past the 4 or 5 open doors and find the rooms to all be empty.

At the end of the hall is a closed door.

"He's inside, fast asleep, poor baby," I think. I place my hand on the knob and stop dead. There are sounds on the other side.

"Mmh … fuck …"

What on earth ?

" … _mmh … ohchrist _…"

It … it … can't be. I press my ear closer. A voice that sounds exactly like Curt's is strained, breathy, gravelly. It calls out and is now panting; exactly the sounds he makes when he … _comes_ ?

I stand stock still, in utter disbelief … what on earth does he think he's doing … _masturbating _? … in Maria's house …?

I continue listening.

The next sound freezes me to the core.

* * *

><p>"You are very fine, senor. Your body, your cock, are very fine. The type I have long dreamed of."<p>

* * *

><p>I stagger backward into the wall.<p>

_Miguel … oh god … Curt … is … in … there … right this second … with … Miguel._

I'm panting, searching my scrambling mind. I don't want to believe it, I don't want to believe it could _possibly _be … but I know without a doubt that it is; I know that voice, I know those intimate, intensely private sounds.

My mind spirals into a panic. The events of the evening flash by: Miguel, on the make, from the first moments, even in the car on the drive over, even in the way in which he looked at Curt in the rear view mirror. Miguel watching and addressing Curt directly, openly, all evening. Curt, singing, after which people, now adoring fans, gather round, including Miguel, who made the telltale beeline as soon as he was alone. Curt, flustered, claiming to feel ill, claiming to need to lie down, _not wanting me there_. And finally, Curt, as I'm sure happens at his every live show, taking a "fan" "backstage" … for a quickie.

I'm beside myself with shock, with in fact, abject horror. My breath is quick, short, stabbing. The tears stream freely down my face.

* * *

><p>Miguel stands. Quickly, he takes and turns Curt's body around and over the dresser, twisting an arm behind him.<p>

Curt struggles against the taller, stronger man. In the mirror, his eyes widen in panic.

He pushes back but is shaking like a leaf. He wants to cry and scream, he wants to kill someone, he wants to crawl up inside of himself and never come out.

His mind splits off into a haze of flashbacks: Watching in the mirror as Michael leans him over the bathroom sink, both of them dripping from the shower … and then fast forward to … the alleyway, the grimy cement wall, the men gripping his arms, cold hands against his neck …

His face, pained and twisted, is inches from the mirror; his rapid breath clouding it slightly. He can see himself, as if from above … left arm splayed outward, hand clutching the back of the dresser, right shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle, torso pressed firmly into the dresser top.

Miguel is panting with excitement, looking down. Curt feels him position himself against his backside. The head of his cock is warm, and … dry.

No lube.

Curt squirms and twists his body in place. He grimaces.

"_No _!" he barks.

* * *

><p>Outside the door, my head jerks sharply to the side.<p>

* * *

><p>"What are you <em>doing<em>, junkie faggot? You want this to take longer ?"

"Get OFF me, fucking bastard !"

I fly for the door.

"Keep still!" Miguel hisses.

Curt pushes backwards suddenly and Miguel stumbles away, nearly falling. The two men face each other, panting.

"What is _wrong _with you?"

* * *

><p>I am an absolute mad man, shaking, heart racing a million miles a minute. <em>Curt is on the other side of this door and he's being attacked.<em> I grip the nob, hard as I can. It doesn't budge. I grab it with both hands and twist at it with all the might and rage I can muster until something snaps and it releases. Just at the split second I'm about to kick the door open, I hear Curt's response.

* * *

><p>"I'm a VIRGIN !"<p>

* * *

><p>I burst through the door.<p>

Curt, stark naked, face white as a ghost, runs to me and throws his arms round my neck.

I kick the door shut behind us.

"What the FUCK is going on here ?"

Miguel zips himself up and speaks coolly.

"Your slut of a boyfriend attacked my daughter Bianca, as you might recall, since it was your house, and you were right there."

"You're Bianca's _father_ ?"

"Yes."

I stare at him, momentarily startled over this disturbingly twisted coincidence. "Jesus fucking Christ", before my fury resumes. "But, so ... what exactly were you trying to _do _here, settle the score ?"

Curt backs away, shaking, looking dazed. He sits in a chair in the corner and buries his face in his hands.

I approach Miguel with clenched fists. "What did you _do _to him ?"

"I told Senor Wild what a big fan I was of his, until I found out he had assaulted my daughter, and that I would have him, as well as you, thrown in jail for it."

I snap.

"He _didn't _assault her!"

"He threw her into a wall!"

"But she was fine! She didn't even have a mark on her! She left the house in one piece!"

Curt mumbles.

"Brian, it doesn't matter. He could still–"

Miguel looks at him.

"–No, you are correct. Thankfully my daughter is young and fit and was not injured, and so in order to resolve the matter Senor Wild and I came to an agreement, a sexual agreement, which, while it may not have been entirely fulfilled, I am nonetheless satisfied, shall we say."

Miguel looks at me.

"Your boyfriend talks a good game, and yet he trembled, like a child, the whole time. Still, his cock is quite beautiful, and I enjoyed very much sucking on it."

I move towards him, teeth gritted, fists ready.

"You bastard. I'll fucking KILL YOU !"

He smiles.

"No, senor, I do not think that you will. I could snap you in two, if I chose. Besides, where is the harm? Your boyfriend and I, we are now even. As are you and I: We have each had him, today."

I spit.

"You NEVER had him!"

He laughs softly.

"Senor, 2 minutes ago, he pumped his seed eagerly into my mouth. He pleaded for it. You should have been here."

I'm seething.

"_Had I been here I would have strangled you for even TOUCHING him_ !"

"And yet you stood by, as he touched my daughter!"

"As he FUCKED her, yes! Which she LOVED! You could hear her squeals all the way down the fucking block!"

He moves swiftly towards the door.

"I will not listen to this! The matter is resolved!"

"Good! Now be sure to go and tell David what you were doing !"

Miguel laughs bitterly.

"It has been most interesting, meeting you both, but I must say to you, Senor Brian, that your boyfriend is clearly quite mad. He is obviously a common whore, and yet he claims, mysteriously, to be a virgin."

"He IS a virgin!"

Miguel looks at Curt, and back to me, in confusion and disbelief. He's so weirded out and caught off guard, he doesn't know what to make of this.

"You are both mad," he finally says as he turns in a huff, opens the door and leaves. I shut it, and approach Curt, leaning to wrap my arms around him. He bursts out sobbing, shaking terribly in my arms. His voice is choked.

"I'm sorry."

I kiss his ear.

"Shush."

"I thought … I just … otherwise, he said he would get you in trouble, both of us … his brother's a cop."

I grip the back of his head and stroke his hair.

"Shhh. You don't need to explain."

I'm hit with a tidal wave of emotion: the blackest possible furry at Miguel, and at the same time, a level of self disgust I've never experienced, at the realization that the root of the problem once again lies with me, in having forced Bianca on Curt in the first place.

I pull my head back. I brush the hair from his eyes.

"This was my fault. I'm _so sorry_." I lean and hold him. "You're incredibly brave."

For several minutes we sit in silence. When the color in his face has finally returned, and he feels more steady on his feet, we stand, and I help him dress.

His voice is small and soft, like a child.

"How will we get home?"

"Don't worry. We'll get a lift from someone. Maria will–"

"No! Please don't ask Maria! She hates me now. Miguel said–"

"–Never mind what Miguel said! Maria hates _him_, and now we know why!"

He ponders this a moment. I take his hand.

"Curt, I'm going downstairs, just for a minute. I want you to stay right here. Miguel is down there right now telling lies and I'm going to make sure Maria understands that you're innocent here, though something tells me she won't believe his story anyway."

"But … what will you tell her?"

"That you weren't feeling well, that you came up here to lie down and Miguel followed you and when you said no, he tried to attack you."

He seems unsure; he still seems in a daze.

"It will be alright, my love. I promise. Then we'll go straight home."

He ponders this a moment, then nods.

I kiss his forehead, leave the room and quietly shut the door behind me.

In the kitchen, Maria stands, while David sits at the table. His eyes are red and tear streaked. He stands quickly, and leaves.

Maria turns. She looks worried.

"I'm sorry about David. He's just learning the truth about his boyfriend. Is Curt okay? Miguel said they got into some sort of a fight, but you never know, with him."

I take a breath and recount my story.

A hand flies to her mouth.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Is Curt hurt?"

"No, but … he's quite freaked out."

"I'm so sorry. Miguel is … devious. But I never dreamed he would … Do you want me to call the police? Oh god, what am I thinking? They'd never charge him with anything – his brother is a detective."

"No, it's okay, we just want to put this to rest."

"Of course."

"I hope David didn't think …?"

"No, I think he saw through Miguel tonite for maybe the first time. That's why he's so upset. I'll never let him in my house again, I know that."

She touches my hand.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, we just need to get home. May I have a glass of water and some aspirin?"

"Of course." She fetches both and hands them to me. "Sorry, my husband's driving my brother home right now, and that's our only car but I'll call you a cab, if that's okay, it'll be here in 5 minutes- they're right around the corner."

* * *

><p>I return to the room to find Curt still shaky and very quiet.<p>

I take his hand and we descend the stairs.

Maria meets us.

She hugs Curt, and then, me.

"We were having such a beautiful time. I'm so upset it ended badly. Will you come back at some point, before you both leave?"

I look at Curt.

"We only have a few more days. I don't know."

She holds my hand.

"I understand. Please take care of yourselves. We so enjoyed your company."

"And we did, yours. The dinner was fantastic. Thank you so much."

She turns to Curt.

"I can't tell you how much I enjoyed discussing the homeland. It meant the world to me."

He smiles shyly.

"Me too."

"I would love it if you could both drop us a line, sometime. Seriously." She grabs a piece of paper and writes down her address and phone number. "I sincerely wanna make this up to you, if at all possible."

I take it.

"Of course."

In the distance, a cab horn honks.

"Oh, there they are. Please take care of yourselves."

She hugs me, then Curt. I turn, but not before she leans in and whispers something into his ear, before pulling away and kissing him quickly on the cheek.

* * *

><p>In the rear of the cab, we hold eachother. I stroke his back, which is damp.<p>

"I feel dizzy."

I touch his forehead.

"You're really warm. Sit forward, put your head between your legs."

He complies.

"We'll go to bed straightaway. You'll feel better in the morning, I promise."

* * *

><p>At the house, I tuck him in and lay astride. He falls asleep almost right away, however within the hour he is holding me, face in my neck, shaking and hyperventilating; a bloody full fledged panic attack. I place my hand against his chest. Sure enough, he's sweaty, and his heart is racing madly. It's terribly frightening and yet I know there is no option of bringing him to the hospital due to his crippling phobia there, though there's not much they could do for him, anyway.<p>

I clutch him tight and cradle the back of his head in my hand, feeling so afraid and upset, as well as utterly useless. Then I remember. Idiot! Paper bag! _Now_ !

I leap out of bed, race to the kitchen, ripping open drawers and cabinets until I find one, then rush back, two and three stairs at a time, and all but shove it in his face. He grabs it and covers his mouth, the bag jerking all the way open and shut every split second.

I pace back and forth next to the bed, totally freaked, searching my mind for the signs of heart attack, stroke, or anything else that might be going on. I rush off to the bathroom and run a towel under ice cold water and bring it back to wipe down his face and neck, which are dripping sweat, all while his breathing seems almost to escalate.

"Curt," I say, furious at my high pitched, trembling tone. _Goddamit_, I need to sound _calm _right now! "What should I do?" He doesn't respond- he can't, he's gasping for his life; he probably feels like he's dying. That's what he told me once, that a panic attack feels like rapidly pending death. Christ, what do I do ? What if he IS dying ?

Rape counseling. The useless phrase pops into my head. I feel a sudden surge of frustrated anger at him, that he's never even attempted therapy- and here I have twice seen the harrowing legacy of that one event, the hold it still has on his life.

Don't be ridiculous! My mind screams. What is _wrong _with you? Somebody who doesn't even _know _him would suggest that, so what is _your _excuse? He will _never _be able to approach anything even resembling a shrink because of his ghastly associations with such institutions, or did you _forget _?

I continue pacing, sweating, shaking, watching him closely, imagining over and over the different ways in which I will kill Miguel, should I ever see him again. It seems an hour until the bag's movement start to slow … or appears to, though it could be my imagination.

I lay a hand on his chest and … yes, his heart is slowing, though it's still twice the normal speed.

I race to the bathroom and return, laying a cold compress across his forehead, a larger fresh wet towel over his torso, and a glass of cold water on the night stand. The bag is barely moving now.

After a minute, he takes it from his face.

I help him sit up, and hold the water to his lips. He takes several giant gulps, downing the entire glass in about 3 seconds, then without a word, flops back to the mattress, on his side, and within seconds, is out cold.

* * *

><p>I walk in an uneven pattern to the bathroom, wholly spent. I fill the sink, and, cupping both hands, over and over throw cold water at my face and body, not caring in the least that it's drenching everything, the wall, the floor, the toilet. My mind is a blank. I stumble to the bed, and collapse by him.<p>

* * *

><p>We can't be let off that easy, however. Within a few hours I awaken. He's in my neck, panicked again. God I want to cry.<p>

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm right here."

"I'm sorry." His voice is tiny. "I'm just … so fucking _scared_. I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

I hold him and stroke his back.

"You're not. You're safe, my love. I promise. You just need rest."

"Brian, he tried to–"

"–I know. It's over. He _didn't_. You stopped him."

He quiets suddenly. He swallows. Long moments pass. I can tell he's processing this. I run my hand up into his hair and hold him, whispering.

"_You stopped him_."

For another minute he remains still and quiet.

I back my head away. I brush the wetness from his face. I look into his eyes.

"You're fine. You're safe. You'll always be safe, now."

His face calms. The breath he has so long been holding is released.

* * *

><p>I awaken. My back is to him. Here in a room, in a bed so fresh of panic and fear, he whispers into the darkness a thing of singularly heartstopping simplicity and beauty.<p>

"_I don't want to be with anyone else ever again_."

I turn. I cup his face. His eyes, even in the pitch, are a riveting blue; rich, worlds-deep, alive. He runs a finger over my brow, temple and along my jaw. I feel it so intensely in this moment, my whole being is flooded with the sensation. The words begin to tumble from my mouth- my lips barely needing to move, before his voice echoes mine:

"_I love you so much_."

Inside of the energy and light between us, there is no room for reason, for argument, for _should _and _shouldn't_. There is love, and then there is blackness. That is all.

I rise. Above him I am fluid, floating, silent, moving as if in a song, as if in a dream; embodying the light, manifesting it, harbouring it, protecting it. It is whole. It is good. It is the act of becoming alive.

He moves with me. His cries pierce the silence. I fall to him, and hold him.

* * *

><p>The morning, the day, have a dream-like quality to them. It starts in the window. He moves along, up the sand, with a grace, with a sinewy elegance I have not quite seen before. He appears to my eyes almost to be gliding, a pure white celestial being, skin shining like a mirror in the light of the still-rising sun, a bright golden jewel against the beach.<p>

I ponder for a moment the possibility that this angelic creature may never return, that the sea, whenever it chose, could take him from me. In that instant I fall to my knees and with bowed head, plead earnestly and out loud for his protection, for his safe return, quietly admonishing myself for not doing so before, for not in fact watching and waiting, each time.

Yes, he has become something so precious to me, so necessary, so _sacred _even, that I'm hurling myself to the floor at the thought of losing him. Me! Maxwell _Demon _! A sinner to be sure, a reveler in sins of every form.

_What _is going on here?

I sit on the bed, pondering as I watch him in the waves, half expecting at any moment that he will walk on the water, and realize this one thing: the more time I spend with Curt, the further I fall in love with him, the less I seem to know, or at least recognize … myself.

Who is this person, the notoriously selfish motherfucking _prick_, after all, who now finds such solace, such strange and exquisite joy in focusing so intently, for the first time in his entire life, on someone _other _than himself ? Who actually daydreams of nurturing, of taking on burdens, wrestling demons and fighting dragons, of out and out rescue ? Who gains such satisfaction from simply being _needed_, as opposed to the man for whom this very thing was once a wholesale turnoff and deal breaker ? Most of all … who is this man whose capacity for love, for selflessness, is seemingly endless?

I smile.

I don't know … I haven't a clue in the world … but more and more, I like him.

* * *

><p>Down in the kitchen I see that he has repositioned the fridge, the table and chairs, and picked up the various fallen andor broken items. After finishing the job via cleaning and sponge mopping, I turn and begin preparing breakfast, scrambling eggs, frying bacon, heating up the muffins and coffee. It fills the house with a warm, comforting aroma.

Outside he is beginning to wade inward, and I move quickly to meet him, throwing my arms round his wet torso and holding him, wordlessly, for several minutes, my heart swelling by the millisecond.

Into his neck I speak in a half sob.

"_My darling angel_."

He kisses my cheek.

"_I swear I'll never let anyone hurt you_."

He tightens his hold. He whispers.

"I know."

"Are you … are you alright?"

"Yes."

We part. I brush the wet strands back from his face.

"You sure ?"

He smiles, broad and beautiful and handsome.

"Yes."

(What is it? What secret, magical ingredient does it contain, this simple, beautiful movement of his mouth, that can instantly weaken me, make me buckle in place, make me bubble over, with love, with joy, with relief, with giddiness, with lust?)

I hold him tighter. It comes right out of me, no stopping it.

"You're all I live for."

Instantly, his lips are buried in my neck.

"Oh my baby, you're all I live for, too."

* * *

><p>The day is spent in three hazy-dreamy parts: long bouts of comfortable silence (celibate napping, cuddling, lazing about on the beach andor watching tv with the sound down); longer bouts of outrageous, extensive hand holding and iris gazing; (really, it's pretty-near sickening) and then rabid conversation, with but one topic: me. Curt wants to know my every thought, wish, and opinion as well as pretty much everything that's ever happened to me, no matter how fleeting, and in fact, he makes me tell several stories twice.

If it wasn't already obvious, something has become crystal clear:

Curt Wild is in love.

* * *

><p>He's come back downstairs after getting dressed following a quick pre-dinner swim. I'm fussing about, putting the finishing touches on the stuffed mushrooms and poking at the chicken, blathering on about my aunt.<p>

"The feisty one?"

I laugh. "Yes, her. In addition to being a raving flirt, she's very creative. You'll meet her at some point. Anyway, she's a very good cook and this is her recipe. It's a bit of crab, parmesan, breadcrumbs and wine sauce."

He approaches from behind and looks over my shoulder.

"Shit. Smells fantastic."

I gesture.

"Well, it doesn't look very pretty at this point but …"

"Brian, it looks amazing." He laughs sweetly. "I can't believe I actually have somebody that cooks for me."

I turn round. His hair is a damp and lovely mess. He smells of fresh salt air. I reach for his jaw.

"They all should've been cooking for you, Curt."

He shrugs softly and gives me a shy, half embarrassed smile.

"Well, y'know … well Michael did, anyway."

I nod

"Yes."

He looks at the stove.

"So the chicken …?"

I turn round and look through the glass window.

"It's sort of an herb coating. Should be delish. It's almost done."

"Your aunt's recipe again?"

I turn back.

"Yes."

"What's her name? I don't think you've ever told me."

"Auntie Prunella."

He bursts out.

"I know it's a ridiculously snooty sounding name to an American, but it wasn't all that uncommon in her day in England."

"Does she have, I mean, is there a nickname–"

"–Prunie."

He laughs again.

"Prunie, okay. So she taught you how to cook?"

"Ya, I mean, I don't know a lot, just a few dishes and some desserts, but I think they're pretty scrumptious, myself."

He smiles crooked.

"Who knew? Brian Slade; international rock star–"

"–And housewife."

We laugh.

"Well, it's not like I've had much opportunity to cook the last year. I've had my own chef." I grin. "That's one of the nice things about being with you- I get to fuss and make nice things for you, and you really appreciate it."

"I do, cuz normally for me it'd be cold balogna sandwiches."

I turn around again, and shake my head as I check on the mushrooms.

"Never again."

I lean up and shut off the stove.

"Is it done?"

"It should just be another minute. Aunt Prunie would always turn the stove off a few minutes early, to save on the gas bill believe it or not, and so I've picked up the habit. Here was a woman who–"

He takes two steps forward and kisses me quickly on the lips, without warning, before stepping back.

My cheeks flush and tongue ties for a several seconds before I finally speak.

"_What was that for_?"

He shrugs. His smile is soft and serene.

"Don't need a reason, do I?"

"No. I-I just … it was just … I just wasn't expecting it." I smile. "I'm a bit flustered, as you can tell."

He laughs warmly and reaches for my hand.

"It was a lovely surprise, Curt."

I walk forward and lean in to hold him. His arms slide softly round my back.

I turn my head sideways and kiss his neck.

"I love you."

"I love you too, my baby."

After a beat, I pull back.

"Let's eat."

* * *

><p>By the end of a day that's been perhaps the happiest of my life, we're sitting on the back deck watching the magnificence of the sunset, imagining ourselves as waves, as seagulls, as hummingbirds, butterflies, <em>bats <em>(Curt's preference), and finally, as sea roses.

"Not something we have in Michigan. Imagine being that beautiful, smelling that fucking good, and then dying at the end of the season. There's just something really cool about that."

"I don't want to live just one season though, Curt."

"But it's a lifespan to the flower- it's our 80 years."

I smile. I turn to him.

"As long as I can spend them with you."

"Awww," he laughs, leaning over to kiss me.

* * *

><p>Up the stairs we finally head. It's after midnite and we've been up 18 hours.<p>

"Curt."

"Hmm?"

We turn into the bedroom.

"You're not upset in any way about … last night, in bed, I mean ?"

He looks at me.

"How could I be ?"

"Well … because …"

"Brian, what we did last night was absolutely _love_, don't you think? It just took a physical form. Michael used to say that sex was the highest, most sacred part of our nature."

It hits me, the sheer truth and beauty of the statement, here in a world that defiles and demeans sex and calls it terrible names. I'm so grateful to Michael that he passed on such life affirming, life altering wisdom to a boy who had only associated it with the worst sort of guilt and shame.

"My god, Curt, I swear I've never heard anything so amazing, and so true, in my life. He was incredible, Michael."

We climb into bed and lay, facing the ceiling. He takes my hand.

"He was."

I'm hesitant to mention it, but after a respectful pause, do.

"So, needless to say, we're absolutely back on the wagon."

"Yup. Good and right as sex may be, beautiful and necessary as it may be, I still crave that fuckin' honeymoon like you can't even imagine."

I smile. Only Curt could conjure up a phrase like "fuckin' honeymoon."

I lean to kiss his cheek.

"Me too," and turn to fall asleep.


	27. You, Most of All

In the morning, the bright sun streams into the room. I awaken, groggily, to find him walking by the dresser, naked. I check the clock- 6am.

My voice is scratchy. I go to call his name but nothing comes out. I clear my throat.

_"Curt."_

He turns. He approaches and sits by me.

I reach for his face and cradle his jaw. He takes my free hand in his.

"Please be careful out there. I worry."

"No need, baby. I can swim like a motherfucker."

I laugh.

"Six in the morning and you've got the _nastiest_ mouth."

He half grins, shrugs and leans forward.

We kiss softly, lingering over each other's mouthes a bit too long.

He breaks away. He whispers.

"It's early. Go back to sleep. I just need a good swim."

"Just … make sure you come back."

"I will. Hey, y'know what? I woke up at one point last night and out of the blue it hit me: you rescued me the other night. You practically broke down the fucking door."

I smile.

"You rescued _yourself_, I just walked in afterwards … and took all the credit."

We laugh. I intertwine my fingers with his.

"Did you know though, Curt, that rescuing you is a long-standing fantasy of mine?"

He squints.

"Huh?"

"Absolutely true. I've daydreamed about killing anyone who would hurt you."

He grins.

"So I'm safe then, no matter what. My victim days are over."

"Yes."

He leans in again for a quick peck, then goes to stand but I grasp his hand.

"Just please … be careful."

"Nothing's gonna happen to me. You're my protector."

"But I'm not with you in the water, Curt."

He smiles broadly. His eyes sparkle.

"Yes you are."

* * *

><p>I manage despite a beating heart to slip back into a restful slumber for over an hour, before awakening for good. I throw on my pajamas and descend the stairs to walk out onto the deck, shielding my eyes. There he is, a small figure in the distance, bobbing in the water.<p>

I can relax now.

I turn, and go about the business of fixing breakfast.

Eventually he enters, naked and dripping except for the towel round his neck.

I hold him. He presses his wet body into me.

I pull back and stroke his face. We kiss softly. His skin smells of fresh salt water.

"Did you go back to sleep?"

"Yes, for a bit. How was the water?"

"Fantastic. Healing, I swear. I may have to move here."

I look at him. I take his hand.

"Maybe some day."

We kiss again. Our lips linger an extra beat.

"Just … towel off and have a seat. Give me a minute and we'll have breakfast. Hungry?"

"Yes, please. Smell's driving me nuts. What is it?"

I shrug.

"Just … bacon and eggs. Coffee. Tea. French toast. Regular toast- that homemade bread Maria gave us. Milk. Fresh apples. And her spice muffins, heated up."

He laughs.

"Jesus, is that all? I'm a growing boy!"

I pour him a cup and approach the table, along with a glass of milk. As I lower it in front of him, there is his cock, in full view.

I take a breath.

"Oh Curt, at least can you … put on a robe?"

"Um, okay." He stands and slips on the clean terrycloth robe. "Why though? I'm all dry."

I turn and serve him a hot plate.

"Um, just … y'know …" I move away to fill my own plate, and sit at the corner of the table.

He wolfs down half a muffin and speaks with his mouth full.

"I like being naked."

I sip my tea and look at him.

"Seriously. Feels great. I wish I never had to put on clothes."

I smile.

"Ahh, but some of your clothes look so _fetching_ on you, Curt."

He bites into his toast.

He shrugs. "Come on, Brian. I'm just … regular. _You're_ the good looking one."

I practically spew out my food.

"I don't tell you often enough, do I, but you're fucking _steaming_, Brian. Seriously, have you never looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"Are you kidding? As the king of glam rock, _many_ times !"

"Well, you can't not see it, then."

"Oh yes I can't. I've got soft features, I know them well; nothing extraordinary at all."

"I totally disagree. In fact I would say that you, my friend, are in the realm of beautiful."

"No," I shake my head, "unless you have very low standards, no. I know about these things. I've seen my face up close, painted up many dozens of times now, and I can tell you as a _fact_ that I am really rather plain. It doesn't bother me- one needn't be beautiful to be in the biz, after all, but–"

"–_Brian_, for fuck's sake, allow me to pay you a compliment, willya? Stop fighting me. You're hot, you're _scorching_, and that's all there is to it. You've got a sultriness to you, an underlying level of sexual … energy, or something, plus I mean, perfect skin, huge eyes, and _lips_ like … I mean _shit_ ! You think I haven't beat off to thoughts of those lips a few hundred times ?"

We laugh.

"And what were my lips doing?"

"Guess!"

We laugh harder. I touch his hand.

"Now, no such talk. We really should steer clear of … nudity, and sex talk, just to be safe. Too dangerous."

He grins wickedly.

I look at him.

"What?"

"You still owe me your cop fantasy, though. I was wondering about it out in the water."

I rise to refill his coffee.

"Another time. I'd actually hoped you'd forgotten."

He frowns.

"Come on! I'm dying to know!"

"I don't think it's a good idea, Curt. I can tell you all about it on our wedding night, if you like."

He shakes his head and mutters, scarfing down three pieces of bacon at once.

"No way I'm waitin' _that_ long."

He chews.

"Come on, it's just talk. Harmless!"

"Okay … okay, but _afterwards_ , no more sex talk. None. Agreed?"

He nods quickly.

"Yup."

I refill his cup.

"There's something else we need to discuss first, though, and a question I keep forgetting to ask you."

He looks up.

"Okay, what?"

"When we were leaving Manuel's house, Maria kissed you on the cheek and then whispered something into your ear. What on earth did she say?"

He takes a gulp of coffee.

"This is all so fucking delicious, by the way. Thanks."

"No problem. What did she say?"

"The muffins are ungodly. Can I have another one?"

"Curt! Tell me!"

He half laughs and squirms slightly. "I don't know how you'll feel about it."

"Tell me for god's sake!"

"Well … y'know, she and I had been talking all night and I guess she felt like she sort of got to know me a little." He looks at me. "She's really nice, honestly, so don't take this the wrong way. She said, that if, um … if you and I ever split up, that her son was, y'know, _single _now, and she would love me to be her new, y'know, son in law, or whatever."

My eyes widen.

"Jesus, she's not shy!"

"Nope!"

"Curt, I think she has more than a little crush on you."

He shrugs. "So what. She was really sweet."

"Would you … have you ever been with an older woman?"

"No, but I would. I don't rule anything out automatically. Do you?"

"No, I guess not."

"We're a coupla open books, Brian."

I stand to bring over more muffins.

"Okay, and we have to discuss your singing that night, too."

"Alright, what?"

"What d'you mean, 'what'? Curt, you sang like a god, in a voice I don't think anyone's ever heard. Why is that?"

"Why is what?"

"Why have you hidden it all this time?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't hidden it. It's just … the style of music I play, which is, y'know … loud and … raunchy. It doesn't suit that stuff."

"But … I mean, I know you love the garage stuff and all that, but it's a criminal, Curt, that you don't let the world in on your full talents. _Everybody_ was blown away, not just me. You should use your full voice! It was breathtaking!"

He blushes.

"Well, shit, Brian, I mean I appreciate that and all that, but it just isn't really my thing, doing lightweight stuff."

"Bollocks. You did a song by Hendrix and one by John Lennon. You don't consider them lightweights, surely."

He sighs.

"No, I guess not."

I touch his hand.

"Sorry, I don't mean to tell you what to do. I just loved what I heard so much- it ripped my head off, Curt, and also … I was embarrassed that, as well as I know you, I had no idea."

He nods softly.

"I know. Well, I don't think there's a whole lot of room on the album for stuff like that, but maybe on the next one …" He grins. "If you'll produce that one, too."

I smile.

"I will, if you want. And maybe when we're out on tour, you can practice that voice, some." I smile. "Just for me."

He smiles warmly.

"Well, if you put it that way …"

He leans in for a soft, quick kiss.

He leans back. I point to his plate. "Eat, my love."

He looks down and fingers his toast.

"Brian did we get any peanut butter that time?"

"Ya, I think so, why?"

"I feel like peanut butter toast."

"But we're having eggs and bacon!"

"So?"

I laugh.

"So it would be disgusting to mix those three, Curt!"

He shrugs.

"Whatever. I just feel like something sticky and gooey right now." He goes to stand. I put a hand on his shoulder to make him sit.

"I'll get it." I stand, sighing in exaggerated fashion.

"You're such a _boy_ sometimes. I haven't had this stuff since I was 6."

I place it before him and sit.

"Thanks. Okay, now spill. Cop fantasy. We'll get it out of the way, and then we'll have nothing but unfilthy things on our minds, which will result in pure, unfilthy behaviors for the remainder of the day."

"The WEEK!"

"Ya, the week, whatever. Clean, pure things."

"Things that won't threaten the well being of the kitchen."

"Right."

He removes the top of the jar, then raises his eyes to mine, awaiting my story, while in the next instant, he plunges a finger into the jar, removes it, and licks off the smear, bottom to top.

I gulp.

Surely, there is an evil streak in him. Not three seconds after we both decide that Enough is Enough, that we're like two alcoholics run amok in a liquor store, he goes, without warning, and does something, that, while unintentional on his part, is so maddeningly erotic that my cock goes and stiffens.

He reaches for the knife and sticks it in the jar. He was just taste-testing it, after all.

"Come on, Brian. Quit stalling."

I clear my throat.

"Okay, well … Fuck, Curt, this is embarrassing."

"I know, well mine was embarrassing too. Just talk. I won't even look at you."

He lowers his eyes to the jar and removes the knife, tipping it upright, in front of his face. He may not be looking at me, but I'm looking right at him, so when his lips part and his tongue slithers outward so as to slide straight up the knife, licking off all the peanut butter, I cough rather violently.

"Christ, can you just … spread it on the toast for pity's sake?"

He looks at me, confused.

"Huh?"

"The peanut butter. Put it directly on your toast, please."

He laughs. "What are you, my mother? I like eating it this way."

I clear my throat and sit up.

"Okay. Cop fantasy. See, it involves me, having been taken down to the 'station' for committing some offense–."

He laughs. "Oh fuck!"

"You're not gonna laugh at this already are you?"

He chuckles. "I'm sorry! Oh my god, no; keep going. It's just that, everybody's fantasties I think have a certain amount of …"

"Hoke in them."

"Ya, trite-ness, corniness, or something. Mine included. It doesn't meant it's not hot though. Sorry, I really am. Go on."

He spreads the peanut butter on his toast, finally.

_"I won't look," _he insists, "please go on."

I sigh.

"Okay, well …, it's two cops. Both older than me, late 30′s. Stern types. Good looking, great bodies, of course, the whole bit. Clean, crisp uniforms."

"Mm, good. Are they a couple?"

"No, but they sort of work in tandem."

He nods.

"And so I'm brought into this room with bright lights, and I'm being interrogated."

The laugh bursts forth in spurts from between tightly closed lips.

I stand quickly.

"Oh, come _off_ it, for fuck's sake!"

He grabs my arm. "Oh, my baby, I'm so sorry! I'm such an asshole!"

I cross my arms.

"Yes you are. You're being incredibly cruel."

"I'm sorry; I won't do it again, I promise! Or you can laugh right out loud at mine, next time we get around to it."

"Yours aren't funny."

"How do you know? You've only heard one."

"And it ripped my head off."

"Oh come on, it was completely cliche! Being stopped by a cop for speeding and handcuffing him to the ceiling of the squad car while I blow his brains out?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Um, ya … Not something I've run across a whole lot in gay pulp fiction."

He bites a huge chunk out of the toast.

"Okay, well, whatever. Just … continue. I'll be good; I won't interrupt. I won't distract you."

I sit and cross my hands in front of me.

"I'm sitting at the table, and these two hot cops are grilling me. One standing, walking back and forth in front of the table, and one sitting right next to me."

At this moment Curt tilts his head back and upends the glass of milk, a streak of which escapes and slowly trickles from his lip, over the stubble on his jaw, straight down his neck, over the collarbone ending at his … nipple. He looks at me, exhales with satisfaction, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

A boy indeed. My cock jolts terribly.

I grab a napkin and reach out a shaky hand to blot at the leftover white.

"Christ Curt, I thought you weren't gonna distract me? If you keep this up, we won't be able to eat together."

"Waddayu mean?"

"I mean …" I sigh, "Can you just … not be so bloody sexy all the time?"

"What! I didn't do anything!"

"You don't need to. You'd bloody well make a dead man come."

He removes a cig from the pack, lights it, and tucks it into the corner of his mouth, where it dangles and bounces as he talks.

"Come on, now. No filthy talk."

He puts an elbow on the table, inhales, exhales slowly, holds the cig up next to his face, and leans back to look at me with those weighty morning lids. The ones I hadn't noticed til now. His voice, as always, is witheringly sultry.

"_Speak_."

A tingle shoots thru me. There's no question; this week is absolutely going to last years.

* * *

><p>My imagination takes over:<p>

"What do you want me to say?" I ask in a small, quivering voice.

Those low slung eyes bore into me as he takes a long drag, blows it upright, and leans the chair back on it's rear legs. The robe, which hangs from his shoulders, is resting along his outer thighs, leaving him fully exposed. His voice is calm and breathy.

"Do I really need to answer that?"

I gulp. I stutter.

"Well …"

"Brian, I think you know what I wanna hear."

"I-I do?"

"Yes."

"You mean, my cop fantasy?"

"_Anything_, so long as it gets me _off_."

"B-but we just agreed! No more riling each other up! We have to be good!"

His eyes lock on mine. The smoke billows softly around him.

"And by 'good' you mean …"

I fidget.

"Well … not cheating. Delayed gratification- saving ourselves for the wedding, and all that."

He sighs slowly, licks his lips, and leans forward onto both elbows.

"Brian, let me ask you a question."

His eyes are like smoldering liquid.

My voice shakes.

"Um … okay."

"I'm sitting here stark naked in your kitchen, the same room where I pinned you down and balled your fucking brains out a short time ago, if you recall."

I gulp, blink and speak wearily.

"I recall."

He leans in close and speaks in that slow, gravelly, insanely sexy whisper.

"So here's the question: Do I not strike you as the physical embodiment of pure, unmitigated _Id_ ?"

* * *

><p>(Scrolling quickly through my memory banks to high school Freud:<p>

**Id**: the part of the mind which is a mass of instinctual drives and impulses, which demands immediate satisfaction, and harbors little sense of responsibility.

**Id**: the reservoir of the libido

**Id**: responsible for our basic drives such as food, sex, and aggressive impulses.

**Id**: ruled by the pleasure principle, completely illogical, primarily sexual, infantile in its emotional development, and absolutely will not take 'no' for an answer.)

There can be no question:

**Id**: **Curt**

* * *

><p>"<em>Well <em>?"

I cough.

"Um, actually, um, well … yes, quite so."

"So then why are you letting me carry on with this virgin/honeymoon shit?" He leans in further, allowing his lips to brush against mine. "_Jump my bones._ Push me down and _fuck_ me til I pass out." His voice lowers. His tongue protrudes to lick my jaw. "_You know I want it_."

I break out into a sudden sweat. The blood pounds fiercely. My knees twitch.

"B-but–"

"–Do we really wanna waste the few precious days we have left denying ourselves? Running away from something we both crave? The instant we get back, your entourage and handlers will be crawling all over you; right up your ass."

His eyes travel my face. The warmth of his breath, of his body so close, is making me insane.

"Wouldn't you rather it be me?"

A small peep escapes my lips.

His voice drops to a cock-solidifying sex-whisper.

"My dick is inches away from your hand, Brian, and not that much further from your _mouth_ … I'm sitting here practically begging for it … And you want me so bad you can barely contain yourself … Is there really anything left to discuss?"

My eyes drop to his mouth. I'm panting softly.

"_No_."

I lean forward and melt into his lips.

* * *

><p>"Brian!"<p>

Someone is shouting. Go the fuck AWAY. Leave me the fuck ALONE. Can't you see I'm BUSY ?

"Brian!"

Some bloody bastard won't stop moving my shoulder back and forth.

"BRIAN!"

I come to, and shake my head vigorously. I look at him, annoyed.

"What!"

His face is concerned and worried.

"Holy shit, man, you scared the shit out of me! Your eyes glazed over for like a full minute and you weren't responding. Are you okay?"

I clear my throat and look down, fiddling with the upended peanut butter lid.

"Um … yes."

"Phew, don't scare me like that, man."

"Sorry. I was … never mind. Um, Curt can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Are you by chance familiar with Freud?"

"With what? Never fucking heard of it."

* * *

><p>"Okay, so enough stalling. Tell me the motherfucking cop story so we can get it out of the way and abstain the rest of the week."<p>

I groan.

"I can't wait."

"Well we _are_ gonna wait, Brian. We agreed. Enough's enough."

I sigh. "Ya." Jesus, I want my fantasy back.

"So spill already."

I clear my throat again and fidget in my seat.

"Okay, well, um … where in the bloody hell was I?"

"The walking cop, and the sitting cop."

I laugh.

"Oh yes. Well, what it boils down to is, the walking cop is sort of telling me off, while the sitting cop is feeling me up, under the table."

"Hmm. Does the first guy know?"

"No, well … ya. Like I said, they work in tandem. It's a setup."

"Framed." He grins.

"Right. The lecture is just an excuse. A warmup for working me over."

"Good. Good. They're riling themselves up, and they're riling _you_ up in the process, so everybody ends up hard at the same time."

"Umm, well … ya. I hadn't really thought of it that way."

"Tell me what the guy's doing to you under the table."

"Okay, well, he's sitting by me like I am to you, right now. We're next to each other, but we're at right angles."

"So what. Tell me what he's doing."

"Patience, dear boy! The angles matter. But what he's doing is–"

"–Can the first cop see?"

"No, it's pretty much blocked from his view, because I'm sitting right up against the table."

"Okay."

"So … the sitting cop, he uh, first he makes sure my hands are kept on the table at all times, so they can see them. Then he reaches under and unzips me, all while the first guy is walking back and forth, scolding me for my offense."

"Uh huh."

He takes a drag and does that incredibly sexy thing I haven't seen in a week or so: he protrudes his bottom lip, and blows the line of smoke straight up into the air above him, without tilting his head. Jesus, it makes me nuts.

"That's another way you're like Lauren Bacall, did you know that? You both make smoking look like sex."

He grins sly.

"Okay …" I continue, "So then, the sitting cop, he's got my willy–"

"–Oh Jesus, don't call it a 'willy'! It _ruins_ it! It makes you sound like a 6 year old. It's a dick, or a cock! Limey British pansies!"

"Fuck off, arsehole!"

"I'm sorry, but … sorry. Go on. I'll shut up. I'm the dick, here."

"I agree with you there!"

"Go ahead. Go on. Just don't say 'willy', please."

"Alright! He, he takes out my huge masculine COCK, and he's–"

"–Stroking it, ya."

"Are you bored or something?"

"No! I'm just … impatient."

"Well if you'd fuck _off_ and stop _interrupting_ me, we'd get there!"

"Sorry."

I sigh. Sometimes I wanna kick his arse.

"I'm sitting there getting steamed up under the table, and he takes my knees and spreads them. And then because the guy needs his hands free because he has to write something down in a report, he takes off his shoe, and his sock, and he crosses one leg over the other, and he gets my cock in between his big toe and his next toe, and he strokes it."

"Huh? I don't get it."

"Curt, have you never heard of 'footsie'?

"Ya, but, that isn't 'footsie', is it? 'Footsie' is just like, rubbing your leg up against somebody else's."

"Not necessarily, not if you're serious."

"But there's no place for a cock to _fit_ between somebody's toes! Not to get a meaningful stroke going, anyway. You'd probably end up scratched by a fucking toenail." He shudders. "Yech."

"Not if it's done right."

He looks at me.

"What, you have experience with this?"

"Well …"

"Jesus, so … who, when?"

I sigh. I _really_ don't want to mention Mandy's name. I hem and haw. He recognizes my discomfort.

"Oh, fuck, alright, forget it. How was it though? What was it like? Did you get off?"

"It was … nice but … a little strange. It's mostly the hidden under the table thing though, that makes it hot."

"Christ, ya. Too bad you didn't toe-fuck me during that dinner date with Jerry."

We laugh.

He pulls his chair up close to the table, smiling mischievously.

"Do it."

I laugh and turn away.

"No fucking way!"

"Aw, c'mon Brian, I'm curious! Just for a second! I wanna see what it feels like!"

"Then I'll show you on our bloody wedding night!"

"Are you crazy! We are NOT playing footsie on our wedding night ! You'll be too busy banging my brains into the stratosphere!"

"Jesus, I'm glad you're so confident in my abilities."

"Come on, Brian, I just wanna try it. Just for a minute."

"Curt, if I touch your cock the second we're back on the wagon–"

"–It's just with your TOES though! There's no WAY it will get me off!"

"How can you be so sure? I told you I've done this before."

"What? You mean you _gave_ somebody _toe_ before ?" He bursts out laughing. "This whole subject is fucking ridiculous!"

I'm miffed.

"If it's so ridiculous, why are you so anxious to try it?"

"Cuz it's hilarious! And I always make it my policy to try out new perversions."

Annoyed, I pull my chair close.

He grins silly. "Make sure you take off your shoe, now."

"I'm not wearing any bloody shoes!"

I cross my leg and turn my knee. I inch the chair closer still and move my foot nearby.

"Gimme some room at least, Wild- spread those beautiful bloody thighs."

He does.

I concentrate hard, stretching my toes as far as they can. We watch each other's faces. I point and spread and … there he is, I'm touching the tip.

Fuck, foot or no, if it doesn't send a tingle through me. His skin is warm, and incredibly soft. I don't often experience him in his resting state.

He grins. He rubs his hands together and looks down.

"This I gotta see."

"No, Curt. Look at _me_. Remember, we're supposed to be doing this in public, at a restaurant or something- that's half the appeal, so you wouldn't be watching. This is all tactile."

"Tactile, okay." He giggles. "But we get to look at each other, so in addition to the toe-fuck, there's the _eye_-fuck!"

He burst out laughing. He thinks this is an absolute bloody hoot. Bastard.

I stretch my toes further, grasp him, and stroke downward. The laugh catches in his throat.

He looks down at the table top.

"Jesus."

Internally I grin. Externally, I'm looking at him all steamy eyed. It will just be for a minute, but even so, this skin to skin contact is riling me up.

I turn my foot slightly to get a better, rounder grip, and move upward, and then back down again, twice.

All the laughter and joviality has gone straight out of him. I'm gloating.

"So … what do you think?"

He licks his lips as the stroke continues.

"Um, I don't … I don't know yet."

Liar.

I turn my foot further, and find the perfect rubbing angle for the area just beneath the head of his cock- his sweet spot.

His eyes open and shut slowly.

"Jesus."

I grin.

"Okay … had enough …?" I slow, and stop.

He looks down, agitated.

"No, I mean … just … maybe another minute."

So … here's the dilemma. I _really_ wanna keep going, even though I'm pretending to be indifferent, and he's clearly weakening- he doesn't exactly have a will of iron when it comes to his cock. So I should do the right thing and stop … _right _?

"Curt is that really a good idea? I don't think we should."

He looks at me.

"I do. Just another minute, then we'll stop. This is just … research."

I laugh. "Ya, research."

"Talk to me though. Finish the cop story."

I sigh. I renew my grip on him and stroke slowly.

"Okay … um … the sitting cop, he's got this perfect cavity there, in between his toes, this nice strong tight sort of grip he gets on me …"

I watch as his eyes resume their slow open and shut.

"… and he's moving at a decent clip …"

I speed up the pace.

"… and it's beginning to make me … y'know … dizzy and ah, meanwhile, standing cop, with that big broad chest, is still scolding me but of course now I'm losing concentration …,"

He shuts his eyes. He's stiffened considerably. I should stop. I should. Or he should make me stop. Why isn't he making me stop?

" … and he comes over to me, and he puts his hands on the table and leans his face in and he asks me if I'm ready to confess …"

What happens then is that Curt exhales a soft moan - hands down one of the top ten most beautiful sounds I've ever heard in my entire life, and the obvious finally hits me: He's not stopping me because he's in the middle of his Arousal Fog. It's up to me, then.

I cease moving.

"Curt."

His eyes open slowly.

I rest my hand over his.

"Come on. We can't be doing this. We should stop."

He licks his lips. His voice is low.

"I don't wanna stop."

"But," I sigh. "You're getting turned on. This is becoming sex, and we're supposed to be holding off."

"I'm not getting turned on."

"Curt, you're cock's swelling."

"But this isn't sex."

"If you come, will it be sex then?"

"I'm not gonna come. There's no way. Come on, just … at least finish the fucking story already. Quit interrupting."

I laugh.

"_You've_ been interrupting the bloody story all morning!"

He grins. "I know. Sorry."

"But what about … waiting?"

"Just … finish the story, and then we'll stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Come on. _Talk_, for fuck's sake." He shuts his eyes.

He's so bloody seductive and alluring, it turns me to jelly. I don't have the willpower to not listen to him.

I renew my grip and begin moving again, watching that beautiful face react. I whisper.

"Okay … the standing cop, he's got his chest right in my face and the combination of that visual along with the stroke is too much."

He licks his lips.

"Right."

"So as he's telling me I'd better confess, I shoot off."

"Under the table."

"Ya."

He breathes in a barely detectable pant. I'm softly rubbing along the underside. His cock has stiffened considerably. We should stop now, but there's more to the story- which is the excuse I use to keep going.

"So what happens then?"

"Um well … the standing cop yanks me up outta my chair, and calls me a dirty faggot."

"Jesus."

"I don't know why that's in the fantasy. He's just a nasty top, and for some reason hearing him say that turns me on."

"Ya, I get it. So …"

"So, he pulls me over to this bench in the corner, and pushes me down over it and he gets behind me, yanks my legs apart, and …"

His cock swells further.

Stop, godammit! I scream at myself internally. You know exactly what you're doing here, and exactly where it's leading! _Stop!_

Just let me finish the story! I yell back at myself.

"… and he ah, takes hold of my hips and ah …"

Suddenly Curt dips 3 fingers into the peanut butter, reaches down, and lathers my toes with it.

"What the hell did you do _that_ for ?"

"Cuz it … needs a bit of a cushion."

"No it doesn't!" I yank my foot away, annoyed. "We're fucking stopping this, Curt."

He opens weighty lids, blinking slow.

I go to stand, to wash my foot. He reaches for my hand.

"Sorry."

I sit and look at him. I sigh. I stand and turn. As I do he reaches into the jar again with 3 fingers, and lowers his hand.

"What are you _doing_ ? ?"

"I'm just gonna … take care of this while you're cleaning up."

"Curt, come on! You can't! It's part of the rules- the ones _you_ set up! Otherwise, the honeymoon will mean nothing."

He's barely listening. His hand is gently moving. I didn't realize he was quite this fond of peanut butter. He speaks slowly, distractedly.

"Of course it will. It's still days away."

I sit. I want to be angry at him, but he's so fucking … beautiful, particularly when he's turned on to this degree. Particularly when he's being rebellious. Particularly when his forearm is making that motion. And meanwhile the knowledge of what is happening just beneath the table top, just beyond my view, is making me bloody mental.

He whispers absently.

"I've never been much of a rule follower."

I challenge him, but it's half hearted. I feel like I'm on auto-pilot.

"But you can't just give in. It's important to you. You want this."

He licks his lips. His voice is scratchy.

"There are a lot of things I want in this world."

He looks at me.

"You, most of all."

He pulls me close for a lengthy, passionate, penetrating kiss … hand moving the whole bloody time. I'm left withered and trembling. He backs away slightly and whispers into my face in that insanely sultry tone.

"You haven't had peanut butter in a long time …"

_Oh … holy … mother … of_ … _GOD_. I gulp so hard my ears pop.

"Do you even remember what it tastes like?"

Suddenly the sticky brown substance is the greatest aphrodisiac in world history.

My body goes limp. Before I realize it, I've slithered beneath the table. Talk about auto pilot.

There it is, full from swelling, and smeared with his makeshift version of "cushioning". Needless to say, I dive.

Much as I want to bob at light speed, I immediately find that there's barely room- the table's just above my head, so all of the pent up energy and lust gets funneled to my lips and tongue, and, it has to be said, into a fierce, raging suck-fest.

His reaction is immediate- intense, agitated, head-back, open-mouthed moans, groans and cussing. Perhaps my favorite thing in the entire universe.

It must be said that there truly is nothing in this world like the beauty and power inherent in taking him by mouth, of being directly and immediately responsible for his arousal, for his agitation and anguish and sweat. To be guided by his sounds, by the changes in his breath, and to seize and relentlessly pursue those avenues that agonize him the most, that elicit the sounds that _will_ cause me to cream in another second …

Meanwhile, all I can taste is peanuts, mixed with salt-water skin. Not an entirely unpleasant combination, it turns out. Really though, I couldn't care less about flavor. Having his cock in my mouth is as natural and good and life affirming as breathing. But for me it's beyond this. I harbor a wickedly intense, unceasingly terrible craving for it. When I'm doing it, when I'm sucking him, I'm completely at peace. It's like the planets are perfectly aligned and all is right with the world. When I'm not … I'm wishing I was.

Thus, that I haven't convinced him to let this be a daily regimen is absolutely unfathomable to me at the moment, as I kneel here before this physical embodiment of pure, beautiful rebellious _Id_.

* * *

><p>Quickly, he rears back and comes. I hold him in place afterward, not wanting to break the connection, until he pulls me up, kicking the chair over behind him to stand with me. We pant softly and look at each other steamily.<p>

"It tasted better than I remembered," I offer.

We grab each other's faces with both hands for a fierce, deep, full throated kiss.

After a minute he pulls his lips away, smacking them mischievously.

"Mmm. Peanut butter and come. Part of a complete breakfast."

I wince.

The fullness pressing outward against my pajama bottoms is glaringly obvious- without looking, I can see it.

His eyes tilt downward and he runs a hand gently along the material.

I jump slightly.

"Oh god, don't touch it."

He laughs. He whispers.

"Why? What's going on in here?"

I grin coyly.

"In where?"

He runs two fingers straight up my cock.

"In your fucking pants."

I shudder.

"Nothing. Just ignore it."

He shakes his head emphatically.

"No, I'm not about to ignore it. I'm beginning to see a pattern here. It happens every time you suck me off."

Jesus. The phrase hits hard; it tastes so bloody delicious right at this moment. I involuntarily close my eyes, and open them slow.

"Why is that?"

He explores the shape, cupping and stroking, guiding his fingers along and around, watching my face. Aside from the pleasurable feelings it elicits in me, it's actually his gaze that keeps me locked in place. Those deep blue pools, blue as the ocean at dawn, sear into me and scan my brain for secrets I'm helpless to reveal.

"Hmmm?"

As he continues, it feels amazing, maddeningly so, this direct and yet indirect contact. It slows everything down and forces you to focus on the subtleties. Like his thumb, right there, pressing softly along the underside and moving up, and then left to right, just under the ridge, left to right, before it _bumps_ up and over, up and over, up and over, drawing the breath out of me.

He voice drops to a low whisper.

"Brian, I've just asked you a question."

I clear my throat.

"What … what was it again?"

"Why do you always get hard when you suck me off? It suggests that you like it."

I half grin.

"Um, well, … I do."

_Bump_ up and over, up and over, up and over …

I gasp softly.

"You like taking my cock in your mouth."

My lids waver.

"Yes."

"But every time you do that, it makes me so excited, I come."

_Bump_ up and over, up and over, up and over …

I gasp and grin widely.

"Yes."

"In your mouth."

"Yes."

"And you like that."

_Bump_ up and over, up and over, up and over …

"_Fuck_, _yes_."

Anyone walking in on us right now might feel sorry for the poor bastard undergoing this digital tease-torture while being questioned by his inconsiderate boyfriend who won't even finger him for real. They have no idea, the beauty and tenderness and delicacy of his touch, as if he's handling something rare and fragile, which when combined with harsh language and imagery is quite simply … my own personal nirvana. I want it to go on forever. I don't wanna come, but it proves impossible.

First though, we will proceed at his pace. I may be ready, but he's not finished yet, with his boyish fascination for the sounds he's pulling out of me, for the torment he can cause with just the subtlest change in direction or pressure, with the verbal sledgehammer he wields. The tingle rises slowly within me, my eyes shut, and … he stops dead, and whispers breathy directions.

"_Lean back for me. Tilt your hips. Hands on the table_."

Weighty lids open slowly. Not being able to think in any way straight, and frustrated that he's stopped, I ask,

"Why?"

His hand returns to the material, cupping it gently.

"Cuz I want you to."

Oh sweet jesus. He watches, knowing I'm in no state to disobey. I lean my buttocks against the edge, which, as I press flat palms into the table top behind me, causes my hips to jut forward.

The immediate effect is that it feels incredibly sexy, and also lewd, and explicit, this unabashed presenting of my cock to him, this surrendering of my body.

"You're _so_ fucking beautiful, Brian," he hisses as his fingers explore softly, seeking out known weak spots and claiming new ones.

The tingle resurfaces and behind closed lids I hear myself moan in a way that signifies pending orgasm. It's critical that the sensations that have driven me here continue and in fact intensify, however he once again slows to a crawl, prolonging the agony. Christ I can't bear it.

"Curt, don't," I whisper weakly.

He's gently caressing my balls, which are tight to my body.

"Don't what?"

"Don't toy with me, please."

His thumb slides directly, determinedly up the shaft.

"Why not?"

"_Because_ …"

I answer in frustration, lids fluttering, distracted by the soft nudges he's giving me.

"Because …?"

"Fuck, I can't stand it," I pant.

"That's not why, Brian."

My growing agitation mirrors the speed of his attentions.

"No, you can stand it, it's just that you can't stand it _anymore_."

I'm sweating. My chest is heaving. My eyes begin their backward roll.

"Can you?"

He has me cupped in the soft webbing between thumb and forefinger, thrusting upward.

"Oh god."

"Can you …?"

He rams the webbing firmly, rapidly, up and in, up and in, up and in.

I will pass out in another second, if I don't die first.

"… my baby?"

"OH! _OhGOHD_!"

That's absolutely it. A charge rockets through my body and I explode, shaking, crying, calling out his name, spasming and spurting unabashedly inside my own pajamas.

Some long moments later, when I resurface and become aware of my name again, I realize his arms are wrapped tightly around and behind me. He's holding me as I come.

We part, but only far enough to take in the sight of each other's faces, to run our hands tenderly up into the other's hair, and to kiss.

I'm absolutely blissful, flying, sky-high, far gone head over heels in love. My heart is bursting with joy, and I don't ever want the feeling to end. I never want to stop looking into this magnificent face, into these clear, brilliant, loving eyes. The energy in this kitchen, once again, is positively tangible, and crackling. How can it be that the sex, even as unconventional as this, is getting better? Is making us, without question, more in love each time?

"Do you have any idea how bloody amazing you are ?"

He grins broadly.

"I was just gonna say the same fucking thing, only without the 'bloody'."

We laugh and kiss.

"We're two peas in a fucking pod."

"The only question is, what do we do now?"

He groans.

"Climb back up on the motherfucking wagon."

"So there's still a chance we can salvage this?"

"I hope so. I want to, still."

"I know, Curt, me too, but we've proven that what we want and what we _want_ are often polar opposites."

He shrugs. "That's what happens when two people are consumed with each other and hot for each other n shit. We'll just have to be stronger than our lustful, animal urges."

We giggle.

"Okay, so for _real_, though, much as it pains me to say this- _no_ more nudity, and _no_ more dirty talk. And let's get the fuck out of the house today. It smells too much like sex."

He speaks in a mock serious tone, like a newscaster.

"It smells exactly like two men orgasmed right in the middle of the kitchen."

I follow suit.

"For the second time in two days! Disgusting!"

We giggle like schoolgirls and head up the stairs.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Okay, I admit I struggled mightily and resisted having this chapter go where it went, sexually speaking. I mean, here is Curt, the very morning after he's expressed renewed, heartfelt faith in and committment to the idea of 'the wagon', due to his desperate and rather lovely craving for a honeymoon, only going and positively caving at the first possible opportunity. I recognize that it's a bit cheezy to go immediately back down that road, and for that I'm sorry ... especially where this chapter follows one that I think is one of my best ... but ... stories do sometimes go where they want to go and it can be genuinely difficult at times for the writer to wrest control. <em>

_In my own defense I will say simply that I could not resist the notion, once it was planted in my brain, of Curt and his peanut butter ... unknowingly driving Brian nuts by licking it off his finger, then sliding his tongue straight up a knife ... the slow masturbation right in front of poor Brian yet just beyond his view (yikes!) ... the not-so-subtle reminder that he hasn't had peanut butter in a long while ... and Brian's ultimate realization that Curt pretty much embodies Freud's Id principle (and having Curt not knowing who/what Freud is.)_

_That being said, just wanted to add that the one part of 'Id' that I _don't_ think (my version of) Curt embodies is the bit about being 'infantile in emotional development'. My Curt certainly has issues and can be quite emotionally volatile, but I believe his heart is one of the best, sweetest things about him - it's in the right place just about all the time - it certainly rules him, and I can't see that in any way as a negative, or 'infantile'._

_Anyway, thank you again, dear readers, for even bothering to come here and read at all, and I apologize for the delay between chapters. _

_PS. Paris was magnifique._


	28. American Queers

Needless to say, we shower separately. I'm lying face down on the bed with my hair in a towel perusing the newspaper when he walks out in his robe, rubbing the dampness out of his hair.

I look up.

"My god, you actually remembered to not only wear a robe, but to close it."

"Ya, I mean, that's the problem with being here. I'm floating around in this blissful state of freedom and love and relaxation to the point where I don't even wanna put on clothes. How am I gonna adapt to the real world when we go back home?"

I groan.

"'Home'- I don't wanna hear that word."

"I know, Brian, but your job back home is what pays the mortgage on this place, for one thing."

I'm still going over the newspaper.

"It's paid off."

"Huh?"

"The house, it's paid off. Earlier this year."

"Jesus, this place is paid for, completely?"

"Yes."

He sits down by me on the bed, looking off.

"Fuck, my boyfriend is rich. I actually have a rich boyfriend."

"Yes you do; filthy bloody rich, at least according to my accountants."

I'm wrapped up in a story and half hearing him as he goes on.

"I guess that must be why I love you. Or, pretend to, anyway. So you'll buy me shit."

I hear only the last phrase and grab his hand to twist it painfully.

"Yes, I'm sure that's quite true."

"Fucken ouch!" He twists back. "You weren't even listening!"

My free hand finds a listing.

"Okay, wow, I can't believe I found it. An advert for Librería de la isla- the Island Bookshop. I've wanted to check this place out before but never got the chance. You, the big reader, you'll love it. It's supposed to be great, and has a huge used section, too, and a little cafe out front.

"But won't all the books be in Spanish?"

"No, it's supposed to have a mix- English and Spanish."

I look up at him.

"Only thing is, it's on the far side of the island, but I'll buy you whatever you want."

His face brightens.

We grin, and kiss.

* * *

><p>We dress and head down to the kitchen to tie our shoes.<p>

"How long a walk are we talkin?"

"I don't know. Couple miles, at least. We could cab it."

"Why don't we rent a motorcycle?"

I look at him, laughing.

"Curt, do I look like I know the first thing about–"

"–No but _I_ do. I used to have one, for years, a shitty old model back in Michigan. I was like 12."

"Well, have you ridden one since?"

"No, but it's not like you forget. It's like fucking, once you figure out where to put your dick …"

"Okay! No dicks! Let me check the yellow pages."

I flip through, find a rental place, and phone ahead to reserve one. Turns out it's only a few blocks from the house.

We exit and begin walking. Yet another gorgeous, mild, sunny morning. Our arms extend between us and hands clasp, quite naturally.

"I'm surprised places like that are open this time of year. Isn't it the off season pretty much?"

"Ya, but it's not like Ibiza has really been discovered. It's still a bit of a secret."

"Too bad it isn't our own private island. Are you rich enough for that?"

I laugh.

"Not quite, I don't think. Give me a few years. But shit, Curt, you might be able to buy your own island- your album could go gold, y'know."

He laughs.

"Nah, come on. I'll always be one of those fringe artists. My shit doesn't appeal to the masses. It appeals to the dropouts and the freaks and psychos, that's about it."

I squeeze his hand.

"I think it's brilliant, and I'm not just saying that because I love you. I felt that way beforehand."

I look at him.

"I actually think you're a genius."

"Ya! Genius! That's why I'm a flat broke loser."

I stop dead and face him.

"Jesus Christ, you're not a loser, Curt. Haven't you realized that yet? You're incredibly talented! You've got a rare gift in fact. Your voice and the emotional impact of your performances come directly out of you- from your soul, dead raw. There's nothing manufactured or artificial about it and it hits you in your gut. You completely blow people away. Not just me."

He seems propped up- I could swear in fact that he's standing slightly taller than he was at the beginning of my little speech.

He smiles handsome and kisses me quickly.

"Thanks. I think you're amazing, too."

I wave my hand at him.

"Oh fuck. My stuff is fluff compared to yours. You and the bloody Velvet Underground- that's _real_ music. Serious music. Stuff that'll start revolutions."

"Ya, Lou Reed, now _there's_ a motherfucker of a genius. First time I heard 'Heroin', I mean, I almost lost my fucking mind. I'd never heard anything like it in my entire life, before or since. It haunted me, like hearing Dylan for the first time. All their shit was great. 'White Light/White Heat', 'I Heard Her Call My Name', 'Sister Ray'".

"'Sweet Jane', 'Rock n Roll'".

"Yes, I'd forgotten. Absolutely brilliant. You should cover them."

I laugh.

"Seriously! Expose the kids to them! Turn them onto some of the greatest shit they've never heard."

"It would sound ridiculous if I did it."

"No it wouldn't! When we get back, try it. I want you to."

"Okay," I offer, not thinking I will in a million years. Little do I know I'll be making 'White Light/White Heat' a regular part of my live show in the coming months and that both Curt and I will meet, and hang, with Lou Reed himself.

We arrive at the rental place and walk inside. I translate for Curt, who is particular about something called "CC's", of which I've never heard, but the man working there has. Guy talk, something I'm absolutely clueless about.

Then we're outside, with Curt grinning like a kid in a candy store as he wheels what he delightedly tells me is a fantastic model- a brand new BMW combination moped/dirt bike that he'd love to own some day, out onto the street for a kick start. To me of course, it looks like any other bloody bike.

He grabs the handle bars, swings his leg over, and … well, let me just say for the record, that he does look rather beautiful as he jumps up and thrusts down hard, with all his body weight, to land mercilessly on that pedal, over and over. (Can I help it if everything he does takes on a sexual angle?)

After the 5th or 6th try, when my eyes are glazing over at his grunting and bicep flexing, the bloody thing starts, unfortunately. Unfortunately, because I was enjoying myself so much, in the way I will now have to, due to our enforced celibacy and secondly, in truth, I'm a little afraid of the damned thing, having never ridden on one.

He revs the engine a number of times, and then jerks his head to indicate that I'm to join him. I want to protest, but the motorbike salesman is watching, so I brazen it out, and manage to climb on the back without falling off or appearing too prissy, hopefully.

I have to yell for Curt to hear me, the bloody revvings are so loud.

"Is there a handle somewhere for me?"

He yells back.

"There's a bar you can hang onto directly behind you, or you can grab me around the waist."

As if …! And so, of course … the rental man is treated to the curious sight of a man grinning devilishly, leaning all the way forward to wrap his arms round another man's waist. Surely not something he's ever seen before in macho Spain.

Curt points the nose into the street, and with a quick slight jerk, we are off.

"Put your feet on the fucking pegs!"

"Oh." I'd been letting them dangle.

"It throws off our balance," he yells back at me. "You wanna stay still for the most part, okay?"

Pity. I tighten my grip around him. "I don't mind this at all!" I yell back, resting my head sideways, on the broad expanse of his back. If it weren't for the wind and the noise and the sunshine and the exhaust fumes, I could fall right to sleep.

We head off and pick up speed, passing the mostly empty streets, the water views at the road-ends passing by in a blip. It's a bit scary, actually.

"Not so fast, Curt!"

"I'm only going like … well this thing says 80."

"But that's kilometers. It means, like 50mph. I think the speed limit here is 30 kilometers."

"Oh, okay." He slows. "Hey."

"What?"

"This is fun."

I kiss his back.

"Ya wanna explore the island a little, go on a little road trip before we hit the bookstore?"

"Well I don't wanna get lost, though."

"We won't. You've got your map. And who cares if we do? We're on vacation."

"Okay."

"Point to a road or something. We'll do it completely random."

We're passing what appears to be an orange grove of some sort. It smells strongly of citrus, and features gorgeous trees with big round leaves.

"What about down there?"

Without warning the bike turns quickly.

"Jesus, will you be careful!"

He laughs.

"Quit worrying. I know how to handle this thing. When I lean, you just gotta lean with me."

The road is suddenly bumpy however, and he slows considerably. Then we're underneath a very long cluster of orange trees which arc above us and meet in the middle, overhead. It's absolutely gorgeous, the sun streaming down on us through the few breaks in the arc, the fresh, nearly overwhelming scent, the warm breeze, the low hanging fruit surrounding us. Wow. I reach out at one point, and even grab an orange as we pass.

"Did you get one?"

I laugh with delight.

"Yes!"

"Fuck, you're quick."

Just as suddenly, we are through the arc and to the other end, in the open sunshine again. To our right is raw forest, while immediately to our left is the edge of the orange grove.

"Where to, Demon?"

I look round, and spy a dirt trail leading into the woods. Dirt trail. Dirt … bike, right? I point.

Without hesitation, he turns in.

"I was hoping you'd pick that! This is where it really gets fun. Hang on though!"

The path is mostly smooth at first, and we travel deep into the forest, which is cool and damp and smells of pine and eucalyptus, the former strongly evocative of course of Christmas, the latter, a favorite all time scent.

Really, as far as any measures of heaven go … to be leaning against Curt Wild's back, with only a thin cotton shirt between you, to have your arms wrapped firmly round him, all while you pass scenes of such extraordinary natural beauty, featuring all manner of pleasing scents is just …

He pulls over suddenly.

"What?"

He climbs off and reaches for my hand.

"Let's just check it out in here. Go for a little hike."

We walk for quite a ways into the forest, and then begin a trek uphill. I hadn't really realized this was the base of a small mountain. At one point, it's mostly rock, and we literally climb and pull each other upward. Even though I'm hardly the athletic type, I'm really enjoying it- it feels good to breathe in fresh mountain air, to walk silently and just take it all in, the ferns, the wildflowers, the tree stumps and chirping birds. Then there is an outcropping- suddenly the sun illuminates our path, which opens up and there to our right is the most extraordinary, breathtaking view of the water.

He stops here, takes my hand, and kisses me softly, if too briefly.

"I'll never be able to thank you enough for bringing me on this trip. I'm having the time of my whole fucking life, you have to realize."

My heart swells.

I clutch his hand.

"Me too."

He smiles shyly.

"What I told you the other night at Manuel's about being happier than I've ever been; it's true."

My heart spills over, as do my eyes.

He brushes the wetness away. He whispers tenderly.

"Come on, Brian."

I sniffle.

"I'm sorry. It's just … tears of joy. I love you so much, all I want is for you to be happy, so for you to tell me that …. I'd rather be here than anyplace else on earth, Curt."

"Me too, my baby." He closes in to kiss me but I'm instantly incapable of any lip-puckering due to the oversized grin that has split my face.

He backs away, laughing.

"Sorry, I should know better than to call you that and expect you to be able to function."

We laugh together and begin walking away.

I hear a rustling of leaves and stop dead.

"What?"

"Shhh."

We look, and an instant later … there is a doe and her fawns hopping by, not 12 feet from us.

"Holy shit!", he whispers.

"Don't move; don't even blink."

We watch as the 3 small beings nibble absently on leaves and berries.

"Jesus Christ, look at that- a little family."

"Bloody beautiful."

And just as quickly as they'd arrived, they are off, scampering deep into the woods.

I turn to Curt, whose face is a mask of pure delight.

"I can't believe it, Brian. That was so fucking awesome. Totally made my day."

"I know, incredible. This is what we see by leaving the house- and we're only a few miles away."

We begin descending the mountain.

"Fuck, I had no idea Ibiza was like this. You got mountains, orange groves, crystal clear ocean, stunning white sand beaches."

"A volcano. And a hard rock club, even. And there's an old movie theater in town."

"Really? We should go before we leave."

He reaches back for me as I traverse a jagged rock.

"I don't wanna leave."

"I know, my baby, but we don't have any choice."

"Why can't we live here?"

"Brian, come on. You have your whole career, not to mention signed contracts you're bound by."

I step carefully around a boulder.

"What if I just walked away from it all? Tell them to fuck themselves?"

He jumps across a moderate sized stream and turns to reach for my hand.

"Well, you'd probably be sued, and all your money would be spent on lawyers fees."

I jump, and _splash_ a bit, not quite making the edge.

"And a divorce payoff."

"Yep."

"I could live without money for a while, though."

"Come on, Brian. I've done it, shit, most of my life, and let me tell you, there's nothing romantic about it. It sucks. Have you, ever?"

I fidget.

"Well … no. I had quite a comfortable upbringing."

We walk hand in hand, side by side, down the pine needle laden path, over spiney stumps and roots and small boulders, as I continue.

"I was raised by nannies mostly. And my grandmother, and then in summers, my aunt, down in London. I was the apple of both of their eyes."

He grins.

"Spoiled, I knew it."

"Yes, there's no getting around it, I was. But I think it was partly because my father died when I was 10."

"Wow, I didn't know."

"Ya, and so, being the only child, the family went a bit overboard in protecting and spoiling me."

"What happened to him?"

"Cancer."

"Mmm. Bitch of a disease."

"Ya, but at least he didn't linger. It was quick, 11 months."

"Wow, I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Somewhat."

Just then we both are startled by a tiny chipmunk who scurries across our path at light speed, spindly tail high up in the air. We laugh.

"What about your mother?"

"She was … high born, and raised by nannies herself. We loved each other, but there wasn't much in the way of open affection between us, because that stuff wasn't done in her world. That only went on with my grandmother and aunt."

"Okay, here's a question. What did they all do when you came out?"

"Well, my uncle, he was in show business already. He ran a theatre in London. I used to go there every day as a boy. And one time I actually walked in on him sucking someone off back stage."

He stops and looks at me.

"Get _outta_ here!"

"I'm serious."

"How old were you?"

"Like, 7."

"Fuck, did you even understand what you were seeing?"

"No, not really. I just knew it was something dirty, something I wasn't supposed to see. I never told anyone, of course."

He smiles.

"Until now."

I squeeze his hand.

"So but, what do they all think of Maxwell Demon and the makeup and bi-shit?"

"Well, of course, they blame Mandy."

We both laugh.

"They figured it was all her idea, and y'know, there is some truth to that. She did help me enormously in my early career. She's very creative, in addition to being cunning. Smart girl- she went to the best schools, and was actually only kicked out of the last one because they caught her fooling around with a girl."

"Christ, I thought that only happened at boys' schools!"

"Nope."

We step around another large bolder, holding onto each other as we do.

I grin at him.

"I like this mountain climbing shit."

"Okay, but … you haven't told me what your relatives think about the gay-ass stuff and the makeup."

"Well, I never really see my mother- we haven't been all that close in many years. And my grandmama died years ago, long before I was signed by anyone. My aunt though, she's my biggest fan."

"Possibly because she knows about her husband's proclivities?"

I laugh. "Possibly."

"I wonder what she'd make of us two."

"Oh, she'd love you. She'd probably make a pass at you."

He laughs.

"I'm not kidding. She's insufferable. She's frumpy and middle aged, but she still thinks she's 16."

And with a last few steps, we've descended the mountain.

He tilts himself forward, bends his knees slightly, and places his hands on them.

"Phew. That's a workout. Down hill's worse than up."

I stretch toward the side, reaching my arms up over my head.

"I feel fantastic." I grin at him. "Let's do this every morning."

He mutters breathily.

"Great. Created a fucking monster."

I reach for his hand as we approach the bike.

"Shit, we did it. We figured out something to do besides fucking."

He looks down at himself.

"Ya, fuck. I've even almost forgotten I have a dick."

I laugh.

"Okay, well I won't do what I was gonna do, then."

He grins.

"Which was?"

I put a hand coyly to my lip and look up.

"Oh, any number of things."

He grabs the handle bars and swings his leg over the seat.

I climb on behind him.

He sits still a moment.

"Okay, I'm waiting."

I giggle and kiss the back of his neck.

"I'm not telling- remember, sex talk is strictly forbidden."

He groans.

I kiss his ear.

"I promise I'll tell you on our wedding night."

He raises himself up to kick start the engine.

"No. Like Michael once told me about writing- good writers don't tell, they show."

He lands hard on the pedal and the pistons kick in.

I scoot up close and press my pelvis into him, wrapping my arms tightly round his torso.

"Okay, come our wedding night, I'll show."

And we're off.

* * *

><p>He turns the bike round to explore further down the dirt path, which proves quite bumpy indeed and he is forced to slow down accordingly.<p>

The problem begins there. Each bump causes me to slide against him slightly, even as I grip him tight, and with my legs spread wide open over the seat as they are, there is no real buffer between his backside and my cock, save for our light cotton trousers.

We've gone perhaps a quarter mile in this slow, bouncy, rubbing/sliding fashion, and the situation, shall we say, is escalating. I want to back myself away, just to give us some room, but the ride is so unpredictable, I don't feel entirely safe in doing so. Jesus, everything was going fine; why this?

"You alright back there?"

I fidget in embarrassment.

"Um, yes. Let's just … get past the bumpy bits, and we'll be fine."

"Okay, I thought this road would smooth out, but it's only getting worse, so I'm gonna turn around."

I groan. I can't take a whole nother round of friction-motion. He stops and puts a foot down to steady the bike as we make the turn, and I go to shimmy backwards, away from him.

"Christ! Don't fucking move! Bike's heavy! It'll pitch sideways on us."

I stay put.

"Okay, sorry."

He completes the slow turn, and we're off, back down the bump-infested lane of torment.

Silently, I concentrate and chant to my cock, willing it to soften. The bloody road, however, has other ideas.

Bump (rub), bump (rub), bump (slide), bump (slide), double bump (rub-rub/slide-slide), etc. etc. etc.

Fuck! I shimmy away slightly, hoping he won't notice the movement, hoping he hasn't detected that my cock has all but solidified. I'm mortified, hiding my face in his shirt, when he speaks brightly.

"It's okay, baby. You can stay where you were. Feels fucking awesome."

I dig my nails into his stomach, and scoot further back.

"Bastard!"

He laughs.

"How long have you known?"

"I don't know. 10 minutes?"

"It hasn't been bloody 10 minutes, arsehole! It's been like 2!"

"Still, in my sorry celibate state, 2 minutes of your hard cock rubbing against my ass is pretty fucken incredible."

"Well I hope you enjoyed it, because that's all you're getting, Wild."

He laughs.

"I know. Only problem is, how will we, er, _you_ rectify the problem? We're not anywhere near your shower."

"Fuck the shower! It'll dissipate on it's own. I was doing fine. It's the bloody road's fault."

He laughs.

"Okay, I believe you."

I reached both hands behind and grasp the metal handle in back of my seat, giving us just enough clearance between our bodies.

"Awww, now I can't even feel you at all! It was nice and warm and cozy before!"

"Sorry. Emergency situation."

We continue the slow bouncy trek, which doesn't help matters but at least I'm past the danger point. Coming in my trousers in the middle of the kitchen is one thing, but walking into a bookshop with a wet-stained front simply won't do.

Finally, after a teeth shaking half mile or so, the road smooths out, and we're at the mouth of the forest.

He turns his head in both directions.

"Which way, Demon?"

I point to the left.

"Just think of me as your chauffeur."

"Yes, James."

As we turn, I grasp the rear handle tightly but my body lurches sideways regardless. It's so unnerving I instantly scoot forward and grab hold of his torso again.

"Yay! You're back!"

"Did you do that on purpose?"

"No! What, you think I'm trying to throw you off the bike?"

"No."

We travel into a neighborhood that becomes increasingly dilapidated as we pass through it, and in fact several structures are boarded up.

"This is a bit creepy."

"Ya, it reminds me a bit of Detroit after the riots, only nothing here looks like it burned. I wonder what happened, though."

"Who knows. Or, shit, I mean, the island is a microcosm. This is just the dodgy end of town, that's all."

"Dodgy?"

"That means, y'know, slummy."

"But there's nobody here. I think it's empty."

"Well, we don't know that."

I look off to the far right.

"Look, see, there's a dog."

Suddenly the bike grinds to a halt. I lurch forward with it.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanna stop and see the dog. See if he's alright."

I look round nervously. We are in the middle of the worst looking set of houses. Garbage and debris strewn about, boarded up windows, dead rusted cars in front. He pulls the bike over & climbs off, oblivious. I stay where I am.

"Curt, it doesn't feel safe here."

He points back as he approaches the dog.

"Well you can drive off if you want."

"Very funny."

He crouches down and talks to the dog.

"Come on, puppy. Come on, boy." He claps his hands softly in encouragement.

The dog approaches warily. To my eyes it appears mangy and flea bitten.

"Curt, don't. He might bite you. You'll bloody get rabies."

"Nah, he's alright. Come on, boy! He's just a bit skinny, that's all. Too bad we don't have any food for him."

"We have an orange."

He laughs.

"I guess you've never had a dog. They don't like raw fruit or vegetables, only cooked."

The animal approaches finally – he's won him over, of course. It stands by Curt's outstretched hand and allows him to pet and stroke it. (Smart dog.)

"Good boy, what a nice boy. What a nice fella," Curt purrs.

I climb off the bike and approach.

"Your charm never fails you."

He shrugs.

"It's just that I love animals, dogs especially; I really think they can detect that. There was always a coupla scrappy dogs running around the trailer park. I always wanted one, but my dad wouldn't allow it." He looks up at me as he continues his petting. "It was a tiny thing that he could easily have done that would have brought me tons of joy and the cost next to nothing, but he had to be a prick about it."

He looks down at the dog licking his hand and goes into high pitched baby talk.

_"Aww, what a sweet boy you are. Yes, you're very sweet. What a lovely sweet baby. Did someone abandon you? What bad person abandoned you?"_

I smile. I'm struck once again by the contrasts between the on-stage persona, the cartoon madman, and the Curt I've seen in Ibiza: nature lover, swimmer extraordinaire, devourer of ancient classics, motorbike rider, and now, baby-talking stray dog fiend.

I approach him and place a hand softly on his shoulder, and run it up into his hair.

"You _are_ amazing, y'know."

Just then an earsplitting whistle is heard from the general direction behind us.

I spin round. Curt looks.

A craggy old man is yelling at us in Spanish from across the street. He looks about 100.

"Consiga lejos de mi perro, maricon!"

("Get away from my dog, faggot!")

Curt stands. He whispers to me.

"Christ, 'maricon', there's that word again. What does he want?"

"He's just an old bastard."

"What does he want, though?"

"He said it's his dog."

"So what?"

"Let's just go, Curt. He's possessive of it. And he's none too friendly."

I walk to the bike but Curt touches my arm.

"Wait Brian. Translate for me."

"Curt, you're not gonna fuck with this guy like you did those arseholes a few days ago. We're on his turf and he's just an old coot."

"No, I just wanna talk to him. Come on."

We approach the bike. The man stares.

Curt speaks to him, and I translate.

"Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was your dog. I was just petting him."

The man spits back in Spanish.

"Get out of here, American queers."

I laugh.

"What? What did he say?"

"He thinks I'm American."

I turn to the man, speaking Spanish.

"He's the American. I'm British. But yes, we're both queer. We're in love. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Brian, what are you saying to him?"

I smile. The man scowls, and whistles at the dog, who bolts for him.

I continue, calling after him as he walks into one of the few homes that isn't boarded up.

"Maybe you should feed that poor dog once in a while!"

"Brian! Tell me!"

"I just told him that we're in love, and that he should feed his fucking dog."

He grins.

"In that order?"

"Pretty much."

He kisses me quickly, and we turn to mount the bike. As I sit back, he stands with one foot on the curb to get better kick-start leverage, and proceeds to land hard, with a grunt, 5 straight times, buttocks and biceps flexing, before it finally engages. He then sits, and revs a moment.

This kick-start business is rapidly becoming foreplay for me.

"Did you think we could fit a motorbike into our bedroom?"

"Huh?" he yells back.

"Nothing."

We take off.

"Where to now?"

"Someplace not dangerous."

"What's wrong with a little danger? I say 'gimme danger'".

I roll my eyes.

"Whatever. Why don't we circle the whole island? There's a road that hugs the coast all the way round."

"Far out! I think we maybe go here, then?"


	29. Deep Down

He turns down a side street and the neighborhood becomes more middle class. Suddenly there's a noise in the air, which becomes increasingly louder, and as we approach, it turns out to be a schoolyard full of 6 years olds at recess.

We stop at a red light and Curt watches them. He's smiling at two little girls skipping rope.

"Do you want kids, Brian?"

I shudder.

"Fuck no. No interest."

"Really? But you married Mandy because you thought she was pregnant."

"Ya, that's how stupid I was. It wasn't like I would've wanted the bloody kid, though. They're little pests."

His eyes shift to two boys chasing two other boys in an apparent game of double-tag. Small screams and shrieks of laughter waft towards us.

He sounds crestfallen.

"I really want kids," He gestures with his hand. "Y'know I figure it would be like the cosmic undoing of all the bad shit that happened to me as a kid, but … it'll never happen. No girl is gonna marry me."

"Come on, Curt. You don't know that."

"Yes I do. We've had this conversation, Brian. I'm not husband material. Only to the worst skanks imaginable, maybe, and even then, I wouldn't wanna marry _them_."

"Who says you have to marry them? You could just knock a girl up."

"Ya, that's a good start to the kid's life."

I'm scrambling to cheer him up.

"Well then … you could adopt." As soon as it leaves my lips I realize the ludicrousness of it.

He laughs bitterly.

"Mmm hmm. Junkie dads! Queer ones! They're in high demand."

I kiss his neck.

"Stop it. You don't know that it'll never happen. You're still young."

"I just …," he sighs. "I just want what other people have, Brian. I mean I hate to even say that because it's so fucking dull, but when it comes down to it, I'm no different. I'd like the opportunity to have a normal life, to give my kid a good, loving home, someplace safe she could grow up."

"She?"

"Ya …, I guess I always ultimately wanted a girl."

The statement lingers in the air, weighty and for me, entirely loaded. I'm looking at his back, but I suddenly feel miles from him. I know what he meant, of course I do, but he's also just told me I will never be able to give him what he wants. And there's a finality and assuredness to it, to the realization of this fact, that floors and stills me. It's like the ultimate Freudian slip that pokes at the fear that is always gnawing at me anyway: Curt, when you strip everything away, when you get down to the honest truth, ultimately wants a _girl_.

We've reached the perimeter; the clear blue ocean is dead ahead, the white tips of the waves pitch and roll beautifully.

I see none of it.

We've stopped at another light. The occupant of the car next to us stares like I have 3 heads. I want to snap at him. 'Yes, a man has another man round the waist. Take a bloody picture!'

Curt clears his throat.

"Brian. I was talking about a _baby_."

It startles me, that my upset is so obvious, that he can so easily read my stupid bloody mind. I don't want to be acting like this, I don't wanna be feeling this, but it can't be helped. The threat is too real to me. Ultimately, a girl _will_ come into his life and replace me, nullify me. It's simply a matter of time.

I speak softly, trying to straddle the line between sarcasm and hurt.

"Were you?"

"Stop it, Brian. Don't start with this shit again, for fuck's sake. You know exactly what I meant."

The light turns green, and we proceed, bearing right, so that the ocean is to our left.

My brain is churning. I'm feeling my own fleeting presence in his life. I'm a bandage over a wound that will heal, and be discarded. A temporary fix … until he can have his normal life.

My silence tells him everything. Suddenly we're pulling off the road. He stops the bike and climbs off. We're in a small park right on a virtually empty stretch of beach.

He looks at me, exasperated.

"Why do you do this? Why do you dream this shit up?"

"I just … it just sometimes hits me between the eyes. The reality of the situation here."

"What _reality_ is that ?"

I look at him.

"That I'm not a girl."

He groans and turns his head in exasperation.

"And no matter how much we screw, I can't give you a baby."

He snaps.

"I don't want you to be a fucking girl! Can we not have this conversation every three days, please?"

"Curt, you just _told_ me–"

"–I know what I told you! Yes, I want kids! I'd also like to be able to fly, and I think it would be a whole lotta fun to have x-ray vision! It doesn't mean it's ever gonna happen!"

I climb off the bike.

"You're being ridiculous!"

"_I'm_ being ridiculous?"

"Curt, listen to me a minute. Please."

He stops. He crosses his arms.

"What."

"I can't … I can't give you the normal life you crave. The life that you deserve. I'll never be able to. So … as much as it pains me to say this, maybe you really _should_ be with a girl. Maybe you're literally just wasting your time, every second you're with me, but you're too much in love to be able to see that."

His face is pained.

"Brian, I can't believe you're talking to me like this. 'Too much in love'? Like, because I love you, I must be stupid? And that even though I love you, it's a waste of time? Where do you get off saying this shit to me ?"

I approach and speak softly.

"I'm just … I'm trying to look at this objectively, and factually. What kind of future could we possibly have if it's missing a key ingredient to your happiness? If you were with a girl right now, Curt, you could have a baby whenever you wanted. You could start right away. That's the reality of it."

"Brian, have you not been listening to me? Even if I suddenly, magically had a girl in my life I wanted to marry, which in itself is a huge fucking long shot, I have _nothing_ to offer her that would make her wanna have kids with me ! Nothing !"

"But a lack of stability or money or possessions doesn't stop people from having kids! It happens all the time!"

"I know! I was raised in that environment and look at what a fine, upstanding adult I've become! If you think I would ever wanna reenact that hideous a mistake, you're completely fucking nuts!"

"Can you quit shouting? I'm trying to reason with you."

"You're trying to reason me out of your life!"

I shout, myself.

"No I'm not! I love you more than anyone else in the entire world! That's why I'm trying to look out for you! Even if it would absolutely kill me to see you with someone else, your happiness and health would still be the most important thing to me! More than my own desire to be with you!"

We stare for a minute in silence. His face softens considerably.

"Brian …, that's … the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me. But … I think, I mean … aren't we maybe getting ahead of ourselves?"

"How do you mean?"

He approaches and takes my hand.

"Let's at least sit on the beach while we argue."

We turn and walk across the small section of grass over to the edge of the sand.

He looks at me with a small grin.

"Kick off your shoes, mate."

We do just that, leaving them by an empty park bench to walk barefoot across the beach. The waves roll ahead of us and the salty wind tosses our hair gently about. Half way to the water, we stop to bend knees and plant our bottoms in place, side by side, facing the shore. A small group of seagulls squawk off to our right.

After a beat, he speaks.

"How long have we known each other, coupla months?"

"Four months, 2 weeks, 2 days."

He laughs. He takes my hand.

"I just … I mean, isn't it a little early to be worrying over things like kids and all that? Like you said, we're young, and … really, we've only barely just met."

True, but … because I'm by this point a bit of a wreck and feeling overly sensitive, the words hit with a sting. It sounds like he's putting the brakes on and backing away from us, now, and … I want him too damned bloody much for that, despite what I said. I'm at war with myself; in my desire for his happiness, and the equally urgent desire to be the one who gets to make him happy … Goddamit, now my eyes have to well. I stare straight ahead hoping he won't see.

He continues in this unnervingly casual manner.

"Y'know what I mean? Maybe we should just enjoy ourselves, quit worrying. Be young together. Relax."

I pull my hand away and lean forward, covering my face.

"I can't relax around you," I whisper wearily.

He looks at me.

"What, I make you nervous?"

"No. You make me …" I sigh. "You make me _ill_."

I turn to him. The tears spill onto my cheeks.

"You twist me up into knots, Curt, to the point where I can't see or think straight. Every bloody second I've been with you for the last four months. I don't even know who I am anymore."

He looks thoroughly taken aback.

"So … what are you saying?"

"That the truth is … I'm not as selfless as I wish I could be. I want you, and I don't want anyone else to have you, and I don't know what to do about that, because it would be immoral to deny you the life you deserve–"

He takes my hand back between his.

"'Immoral'. What would be immoral, Brian, is if we broke up over something that at best, is far off in the distant future. Something that might never even happen, anyway."

"But you want it, Curt. You want kids. You want normalcy. You shouldn't deny yourself."

"Who said I'm denying myself? Brian, do you have any idea how much knowing you has enriched my life? It's absolutely immeasurable, the difference you've made to me just in the short time we've known each other. I feel like I've matured and come to grips with, and in some cases made peace with so many things I've been either suppressing or struggling with for like 10 or 12 _years_. Half my fucking life! Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

"But that … but that's the needy side of you that I've … helped. What about the rest of you? What about when you've figure it all out, when you've wrestled your demons and you wanna settle down and make babies and live in the suburbs?"

He laughs.

"Fuck, are you kidding? I will _never_ live in the suburbs, and thanks for assuming I'm ever gonna get my act together, because truly, if anything's a long shot, it's that. Secondly … I mean, have you forgotten what I've told you twice in the last coupla days- that I've never been happier?"

I look down at the sand and raise my free hand to brush away the tears.

"No."

"Doesn't that count for anything here? And besides, Brian, it has to be said: You're all worried I'm gonna run off and be 'normal'. You're the one who's married!"

I start to protest but he interrupts me.

"Yes! I know! I _know_ the situation there! But still, who's to say _you_ won't be the one getting swept off your feet by some knockout babe some day, somebody you wanna spend the rest of your life with? 'The One', and all that shit."

I ponder this a moment.

"No. That won't happen."

"Why the hell not?"

I look at him.

"Because it doesn't happen twice in a lifetime."

He squints.

I whisper.

"It's already happened, Curt. You're absolutely 'The One'."

He stares. The edges of my mouth turn upward.

"The knockout babe."

He inhales and exhales slowly. He swallows. He sits up straight and speaks matter of factly.

"Well then, we don't have anything to worry about, do we?"

"How do you figure that?"

He grins beautifully.

"Because you're it for me, too, Brian- 'The One', totally."

My chest tightens. My eyes refill. I look down in shyness.

"But … you were just saying we should relax … It sounded like you were backing away."

"I was trying to give you an out. I've known for a while that you were it, but I've been too fucking chickenshit to say anything- afraid it would scare you off."

My heart springs up in my chest and does flip flops, jumping jacks, and calisthenics, but … there is something still pawing at my nagging insecurities. When I speak, it's in a quiver halfway between a sob and a sniffle.

"I don't … I don't know what to say … That's … incredibly beautiful and moving, but, I mean … it still doesn't address what brought us here … the baby thing."

He sighs.

"We'll deal with it when the times comes. I'm not exactly ready to be a dad yet anyway."

I wipe the wetness from my face with my free hand.

"Okay, but I mean, the other thing is … we're not terribly stable. You've already … you've already left me once, Curt, and threatened to leave another time."

He slides himself over in front of me, takes both hands and looks me dead in the eye.

"I know. I've been an asshole, and I'm sorry for that. But Brian, the bottom line is, asshole or no … _I came back_. I came back because deep down, I _knew_."

My heart, which has been pounding so fiercely I can hear it in my ears, suddenly bursts open and spills over with joy. I'm so fucking happy I could float away. Instead, pansy that I am, the tears flow freely down my cheeks. He brushes them aside with a soft hand.

For a long time, we can't stop staring. His eyes are so warm and loving, so particularly clear and radiant, so sweet, I can't get past it. I want to stare into them, truly, for the rest of my life.

At some point, without either of us realizing it, the space between us closes, gently, naturally, effortlessly … my eyes shut … and there are those lips, warm and full, the lips that are mine, and the kiss I've been waiting for my whole entire life.


	30. Fuck Legal

When we finally come up for air, we remain close, with foreheads touching. I'm trembling and slightly dizzy. I lay a hand on my stomach and whisper.

"I don't feel well. I think I might be pregnant."

He chuckles.

I sigh.

"Curt, what am I gonna do? I couldn't see past you before; how will I function now?"

He smiles.

"I don't know. And what about me? What do I do about this happiness shit? It feels incredibly weird, like I'm unhinged."

"You'll just have to get used to it."

"We'll still have our fights, though."

"Of course. All couples do."

"So that will temper it. Phew. I need _some_ connection with my old, miserable, junkie self."

"Well, okay, but only til we get married. Afterwards, you'll cut all ties with that guy, and you'll be the picture of bliss and happiness. You won't even recognize yourself."

He leans away and looks at me. I grin, and stroke his jaw, not noticing at first the look on his face, the extra glint of brightness in his eyes.

"I'll be following you around everywhere, doting on you."

Without hesitation, out of his mouth, it comes.

"Why don't we get married for real?"

I laugh.

"Ya. We'll go find a gay tuxedo rental place, with matching pink tuxes. I'm sure we passed one on the way."

"Brian, I'm serious. I wanna marry you."

I laugh again. I'm waiting any second for him to laugh with me.

"Well, okay. If you say so. I'll let you know the second queer marriages are made legal."

"Legal; _fuck_ legal. We'll rent a church and we'll have our own ceremony. We can't wait around for society to catch up with us."

I look down. There's an intensity to his tone that tells me he's not kidding, and it's weirding me out. Where is this coming from, suddenly? The effects of happiness overload?

I look back at him. He's still got the same earnest, hopeful, sweet expression.

"Curt … I mean, it's an incredibly lovely thought, but obviously you know …" I sigh. I don't want to burst this strange bubble he's suddenly inside of. I don't wanna be the bad guy and remind him that there is absolutely no such thing in the entire world as gay marriage- it's completely and utterly unheard of. (And wouldn't be on anyone's radar, even gay people's, for another 30+ years) …

"… obviously you know that … well, I'm already _married_, so we can't–."

"–Sure we can. We've been talking all along about our wedding night, let's have a wedding DAY!"

I don't know what to make of this. When is the laugh going to burst out of him? When is he going to punch me in the shoulder and giggle over stringing me along? Still, something in his eyes makes me continue the charade.

"But marriage isn't … it isn't what it's cracked up to be. At all. Believe me, I know first hand the number it can do on a relationship. And not just mine. Take a look around."

"Manuel and Maria are happy."

"Ya, and my parents were miserable, and your parents were." I sigh. "Marriage is a bit of a farce, Curt."

His smile hasn't lessened, nor has his grip on my hand.

"I know, Brian. I know for a lotta people it doesn't work. And I know it won't be real in other people's eyes, but it'll be real in _my_ eyes."

I blink. I stare at him a moment.

"You're actually … not kidding."

He doesn't hesitate.

"No, I'm not."

I blink hard, in astonishment.

"Just like I know I'm not a virgin, but it's healing to feel like I am; to start over and have that new beginning. I know it's crazy, Brian; I know it wouldn't be legal or whatever, but fuck, it would mean _so_ much, wouldn't it? It would mean the whole fucking world to me, even if it was only symbolic. Plus, you have to admit, it would be a whole fuck of a lot of fun."

I still can't quite believe he's serious.

"I don't … see, I don't for a second equate the word 'marriage' with 'fun', ever."

He chuckles.

"Well maybe it's time you did."

I squint. The sun is particularly bright, and beating down on the shore. Ah! That's it. I raise a hand to his forehead.

"We didn't bring any water with us and we've been in the sun all this time. You might have a touch of dehydration, Curt. Seriously. It can happen really quickly in these climes."

He pulls my hand down.

"Brian, will you stop it? I'm not dehydrated! I'm in love! Can you blame me for wanting to celebrate and honor that?"

"No, but … Curt, you're scaring me a bit. I just never expected in a million years–"

"–You never expected me to pop the question."

"No, of course not. Because, I mean, for pity's sake, men can't marry, you know that, so why would I …" Something, something makes me smile here, though. Something makes me say it. "And well, actually, you haven't, really, technically."

A look of agitation crosses his face.

"Oh shit, you're right! Stand up!"

I laugh/groan.

"Curt–"

"–No, Brian, you have to stand!"

I struggle to my feet, my knees creaking audibly as I un-squat from the sand. I look down at him. He then proceeds to … yes, oh god, he's actually raising himself up onto one knee, and reaching for my bloody hand.

I laugh. I look round in embarrassment.

"Curt, stop it! What are you doing?"

The face looking up at me is sincere, unabashed, and unembarrassed. His eyes have pooled up with water.

My smiles vanishes. My throat tightens.

His voice shakes.

"Brian Slade, you _own_ my heart. You're the love of my entire life. You're my soul-mate, my best friend, my rescuer, my muse. If you feel I'm at all worthy, would you please, please do me the honor of marrying me?"

He licks his lips nervously. He's waiting for my answer.

I'm … stunned, shocked, speechless. Any notion I'd had that he wasn't entirely serious … and now I feel a complete horrible cad for having questioned him at all, because … here he is, in this moment, a microcosm of himself: passionately spontaneous and irrational; mindblowing in his natural, innate sense of romance; in his sweetness and innocence, in his hope; in his beautiful, unshakable, childlike sense of faith and trust and devotion. A man who has absolutely no business being this way, considering his experiences with violence, abuse and betrayal, and yet … he doesn't know how not to be.

I gulp hard. I'm trembling. My eyes fill. It strikes me, the irony that this rare and beautiful being, this magnificent creature with an ocean in his eyes, would somehow feel unworthy of _my_ hand.

I drop to my knees and throw my arms round his back, turning my wet face sideways, burying it in his hair, mashing my lips into his ear, as I struggle to speak, to whisper my answer.

"_Of course … of course, I will, my angel_."

A sudden breath bursts forward from his lungs and his arms circle my body. He squeezes so hard I'm momentarily suffocated, but of course … I don't care, for he's sobbing into my neck, kissing, and thanking me in between, echoing my own soft, shuddering cries.

At some point, when we finally manage to pull ourselves apart, I'm tingling, but thoroughly and entirely spent. We look at each other, grinning dreamily, like newlyweds, and our wet faces come together for a slow, particularly tender kiss.

Just then, a loud horn honks in the background, and I jump. As the car passes, someone yells something ugly and insulting at us in Spanish, followed by the inevitable 'maricon'.

I turn round, annoyed. He pulls my face back.

"It doesn't matter, Brian." He stands and reaches out a hand. "We can take on the whole fucking world, now." He pulls me up.

* * *

><p>As we walk back towards the bench, arm in arm, I am, of course, floating, and for the millionth time in his presence, giddy like a schoolgirl.<p>

"So, how will we do this?"

"I don't know. We'll dig around, make some phone calls, or I guess, you will, since I can't speak the fucking language –"

It suddenly hits me.

"–Maria!"

He stops and looks at me. I'm practically shouting.

"We'll ask Maria and Manuel! They've got a gay son, and they have all kinds of contacts."

"They can be our guests, and our witnesses."

"Bella can be the flower girl."

"Maria could make the food, maybe even the cake, or she'll know a good bakery in town."

"And a florist."

"Apple blossoms. I want apple blossoms. Michigan state flower."

"It would be nice to pick some flowers from the house …" I gasp. "Curt, we could do it at the house !"

His face scrunches up.

"Eh. I like the idea of a church."

"Why? You're not exactly religious."

"I know, but it would feel more real, that way. More legit." He grins wickedly. "Plus I love the idea that it would piss off the straights- two queers tying the knot on sacred ground."

We laugh.

"But you understand, realistically no church would even allow it. We'll probably have to sneak in after hours."

His face turns sour.

"Bastards! Name me one fucking reason in this world why we shouldn't be allowed to marry."

I shrug.

"I don't know. I assume they figure, if lowly queers can marry, it cheapens the institution."

"So what, we're less than human, then? Incredible! Straights get married in Vegas practically right at the craps table, they don't even dress up, and then they get it annulled the next fucking day. But if you and I are together for years and years, we're not 'permitted' to make it official? As if we need their fucking permission! Total horseshit."

He stops and grabs me by the shoulders.

"We're doing it in a fucking church and that's all there is to it. We're gonna make this as official as possible, Brian." He looks off and shouts into the air. "Fuck all of you!"

I laugh.

"Okay. Something just occurred to me though."

"What?"

We resume walking.

"Maria might not be all that thrilled."

"Why wouldn't she be? She was dying to stay in contact with us."

"Curt, she was dreaming of you as her son in law."

He grins.

"Sorry Maria, I'm officially spoken for."

* * *

><p>On the bike both agree that despite the afternoon's momentous event, and despite all that we have to now do as far as research and preparation, we're still on vacation and we still wanna enjoy ourselves, therefore we're still headed for the bookstore.<p>

"Besides, I'm fucking famished."

"Me too."

I hold tight to his body, and rest a weary head on his back as we roar down the street, realizing that never in my life have I felt so content.

When we arrive, we pull into a space immediately in front of the sidewalk cafe, where a dozen or so customers and a few waiters are treated to the sight of a man leaning his full body weight onto another man's back whilst his arms are wrapped firmly and unmistakably round his waist, and as if that isn't enough, when Curt dismounts, he takes my hand to help me off, and we head for the door, arm in arm, all nonchalant. When a few patrons turn completely around in their seats to glare at us unhappily, Curt exclaims to them,

"We're getting married."

I laugh, and we walk inside. Once in the door we stop and look round. It's quite a rustic place, old fashioned, cramped, and a bit musty-smelling, with books piled literally everywhere.

"This is exactly like a bookstore in Ann Arbor that Michael and I would go to. It used to be a beatnik place."

"What do you wanna look for?"

He shrugs.

"Just the classics, if they have any in English. A good used volume would be cool. What about you?"

"I'm thinking like a travel guide, maybe."

My stomach growls. I lay my hand across it.

He looks. "Maybe you really are pregnant."

"Well, if I am, I need to be eating for two. Let's have lunch."

"Yep."

We turn and walk outside. A young waiter seats us, explains the specials in Spanish and waits while I translate.

"Fresh escargot, sauted in some sort of Spanish olive marinade; a stuffed green bell pepper with cold granada tapas, which is like a mix of cheeses; puntillitas, which is fried baby squid–"

His face sours like he's bit into a lemon.

"Echh! Jesus christ, this place is too fucking fancy for me."

My eyes raise to the waiter and I whisper under my breath.

"Curt, that was really rude. At least pretend it sounds good while the guy's standing right there."

He chuckles.

"Sorry, can't take me anywhere."

He looks up at the lad, nods vigorously, and makes the 'okay' symbol with his hand.

I go to stop him, but it's too late. The waiter abruptly and angrily walks off.

"What the fuck is _his_ problem?"

"Curt, that's a really rude gesture in Spain! It's like the equivalent of giving someone the finger! So the guy thinks you just told him to fuck off."

He covers his mouth. "Oh my god, I had no idea. I'm such as asshole." He look at me, the corners of his mouth turn up, … and he starts giggling.

I can't help but get caught up in it as well, though I'm trying to hide behind my menu. First we make the grand gay entrance, drawing enough hostility and ill will as it is, then almost immediately, one of us flips off a local.

We're in stitches, though we try to shush each other several times. Finally we calm ourselves and I call to another waiter in Spanish. When he turns round, he's like a freaking celestial vision. Young, tall and fit, with full, sensual lips, thick dark wavy hair, large expressive eyes, and the longest eyelashes I've ever seen in my life.

Curt whispers under his breath. "Jesus christ, he's a fucking model."

The lad approaches, and is even more attractive up close, with his smooth olive skin, and deep, rich baritone. Of course, the beautiful sounds of the local tongue always impress.

"Si, senor?"

I speak to him in Spanish.

"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding with our last waiter. My friend here is American and is unaware of Spanish customs. Would you mind apologizing to him for us?"

He looks down at Curt, and though it's hard to pinpoint, I immediately sense his pupils contracting. He smiles handsomely, suddenly ignoring me.

"Si, senor."

Curt leans toward me and whispers under his breath.

"Ask him if he can take our fucking order. I'm starving."

"Would you be able to take our order?"

He turns and addresses Curt.

"Si, senor, and, I do speak some English, if that is helpful."

Curt squints at him.

"Good, does this place have like, hamburgers or anything?"

The lad grins broadly.

"No, senor, there is no such a thing on the menu, but I am sure I could have one made up specially for you."

"Great, thanks. How about beer?"

"Curt, you can't have beer," I absently glance over at the bike, "you're driving."

The waiter turns to look, then addresses Curt again. Apparently as far as he's concerned, I'm not even sitting here.

"Ahhh, you are the biker who has just arrived. I see. Senor, the machine is very handsome."

"Do you ride?"

His smile is dazzling. His eyes flash.

"No, but I would very much like to learn." His voice drops to a whisper. "Perhaps you will show me, later?"

I sigh and sit back, muttering annoyed under my breath.

Curt coughs. His mouth freezes open.

"Ahhh, no, sorry. I really can't."

"That is a shame, senor."

I clear my throat loudly and scan the menu.

"Um, _I_ will have the escargot as an appetizer, and the roast duck for lunch." The lad scribbles busily into his pad. "And for a drink–" The lad walks off.

Curt looks at me.

"Jesus, what is with the wait staff here?"

"Can they help it if Curt Wild walks in, and sends the whole place into a tizzy?"

"What, this is my fault?"

"Yes. It's that fucking aura you possess. That, and you're so fucking good looking, heads turn wherever you go."

"Come on, Brian. I'm no pretty boy. Not like that guy."

"No, but charisma and sex appeal just ooze right outta you," I chuckle despite my annoyance, "even when you're inadvertently flipping someone off."

"But there's no excuse for that guy walking away right in the middle of taking your order."

"Curt, he didn't _see_ me! He was completely blinded by you! I'm astonished he listened long enough to find out what I wanted for lunch."

"Well, I mean … I suppose it doesn't hurt to be sort of blonde in Spain, but isn't it weird that we happen to get probably the only gay waiter they have?"

My hands fly up in front of me. "Yes, the only gay water in the whole country! Of course, he might not even _be_ gay. I'll probably have to worry about straight guys coming onto you now!"

"Jesus Brian, calm down. You're really getting pissy."

I sigh. "Yes I am." I squint at him. "Have you ever been with a straight guy, by the way?"

"Yes."

Just then, the waiter walks past us. Curt flags him down. I notice his name tag: Raul.

"Um, my friend here, he'd like a drink."

Raul nods and looks my way. "Oh senor, I apologize. I did not finish taking your order."

"No, you didn't, did you? But that's okay. What type of wine do you have, please?"

"Senor, for the roast lamb–"

"–I'm having roast _duck_."

He flips through his scratch pad. "Oh, right. For the roast duck, I recommend the local vino blanco, which is excellent, and made right here in Ibiza. And for my error, it is on the house."

Curt and I exchange looks.

"Well, okay, thank you very much. That will be fine." Just as I'm thinking better of him, I spy him giving Curt the slow once-over as he walks off.

I snap my head back. "Jesus! Forget it, let's eat somewhere else."

"Why? That was really nice of him."

"He only did it because of you. I just saw him eying you up and down."

He laughs. "Sorry."

"It's not funny, Curt. And now I'm even pissier."

"Oh, my baby, why?"

My heart leaps. I take a deep breath.

"Okay, that helped, but I'm still upset."

"Why?"

I look at him.

"You've been with a straight guy?"

He shrugs.

"What's the big deal? Haven't you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"You undoubtedly have. You just didn't know it. Why would it bother you if I was, though?"

"Because if even straight guys are attracted to you, then it widens the field of my competition by about a million percent."

He covers my hand with his.

"Brian, come on. Total moot point. Competition's officially dead. We're getting married."

My eyes blink slowly.

"What did you say?"

He grins and moves close.

"I said we're fucking getting married."

Just as he's leaning in for a kiss, Raul appears, and places the wine bottle between us. We sit back as he puts our glasses down and takes out the cork remover thing, which makes a pleasing 'pop' sound, as it's used. He then pours some for me, and goes to for Curt, who raises his hand.

"No thanks."

Raul stops and looks at him.

"You must, senor. Is the finest wine we sell."

Curt nods.

"Okay, I'll try a sip."

He speaks as Raul fills up his glass.

"Um, do you know of any good … churches in the area? Like, _progressive_ churches?"

"Sorry senor, I do not understand this word."

"Um, y'know like, not hostile to um …" He looks at me. "What is that word we keep hearing?" I'm not sure what he's getting at, then it occurs to me. I place my hand on his forearm and shake my head no, but he's turned back too quickly to see it.

"Maricons. Friendly to maricons."

I speak quickly, trying to talk over him.

"He means a more _modern_ church. _Liberal_."

Raul is suddenly agitated. He leans down and whispers 'no', looks round quickly, places the bottle on our table, and walks away.

He turns to me.

"What'd I do now?"

I sigh.

"You used the word 'faggot' twice, and pretty much implied to a closeted guy, out loud, that he was one."

He turns and looks off.

"Jesus Christ, I'm a fucking embarrassment. How can you even stand me? Maybe we _should_ go."

I laugh.

"No way. I'm famished. You'll just have to keep your mouth shut, that's all."

"Fuck, here I am, the personification of the ugly fucking American, insulting everybody and being loud and rude. I'm a total buffoon and a ruffian."

"No you're not. Stop it. You just don't know the language. It's not your fault."

"Teach me then, Brian. Teach me like a word a day, or like a phrase, at least, so I don't make such an ass of myself. So I don't make enemies left and right."

I sigh and lean forward.

"It's not a bad idea, actually. I did teach you one phrase. Do you remember?"

He looks up, thinking, then grins and stumbles all over it.

"Du queer. No. Te queer. No, wait. Te qui…, no, te que-, te … quiero!" He shouts it. "Te quiero!" Half the place turns and looks at us.

He laughs. "I guess I said it right."

"Yes you did." I giggle and hold his hand beneath the table. We've drawn enough attention as it is.

He rocks his foot, causing his thigh to bounce up and down.

"Oh, man Brian. It's too bad we're celibate. This would be the perfect place to get beat off or sucked off under the table."

"Shhh!"

He sits back in a slump.

"Sorry. You're so cultured, and I'm such a schlub. I'm just not gonna talk anymore."

"Yes you are. Try this phrase. 'Estamos consiguiendo casados'".

He squints and laughs.

"What? Come on, Brian, something a bit simpler to start."

"No; just take it one word at a time. Sound it out. 'Estamos', that's not so bad. Say it."

"Estamos."

"See? Now 'consiguiendo'. Break it up into parts. 'Con', 'sig' …"

"Con … sig."

"iendo."

"iendo."

"Consiguiendo."

"Consig …"

"uiendo. Consiguiendo."

"Consiguiendo."

I pat his thigh.

"Fantastic! It only took you a couple of tries. Say it a few more times to yourself."

He does, even adding a bit of an accent in the process.

"Okay, now 'Estamos consiguiendo.'"

"Estamos consiguiendo."

"Casados.

He sighs.

"Casados."

He's studying my lips now.

"Estamos consiguiendo casados."

He grins.

"Estamos consiguiendo casados."

"Again."

"Estamos consiguiendo casados."

"Now a few more times til you feel comfortable with it."

He complies, speaking slowly, but with growing confidence, until he says it with a grin and a flourish.

I laugh with him.

"Fantastic! You'll be fluent in no time, Curt!"

He's clearly excited and pleased, practically bouncing in his seat.

"What did I say? What did I say?"

I smile huge.

"You just told me what we're going to do."

"What? Tell me!"

"You just said in perfect Spanish, 'we're getting married'".

He slaps the table with his hand and laughs.

"No fucking way! That is so fucking cool! Teach me more!"

At this moment, Raul approaches with a tray and places our plates before us. Curt's is a rather small, odd looking makeshift hamburger placed between two pieces of oily, fried brown bread. Mine is, I realize right away, steaming roast lamb, not the duck I'd ordered. Sigh. I guess this is the price I pay for eating out with Curt. Nonetheless, I'm too hungry to care.

Raul leans down. "Senor, may I have a word with you privately? About the church."

"Um, oh … okay."

Raul stands up and points to the far corner.

Curt looks at me.

"Be right back. Estamos consiguiendo casados."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: <em>

_Dear readers ... please, please, please, considering the significance of this chapter, tell me what you think._


	31. Tops, Bottoms and Zorro

I watch as he follows the waiter down the path, weaving between the tables in the empty section. They stop, Raul points down the road, and the two men converse. After about a minute, Raul moves in and leans close, closer than I'm comfortable with, and says something directly into Curt's ear, who shakes his head and backs away. Curt then says something and Raul laughs and leans back again, to say something else into Curt's ear, eliciting the same head-shaking reaction from Curt. Jesus Christ, what is going on here? Finally the two men part, and Curt returns.

"What the hell was that all about?"

For the remainder of the conversation, we speak softly.

"Well, his idea of a 'church' is sort of an orgy-hall, or something. I guess there's some hush-hush underground men's club you can go to, with like 3 members."

"Is that all he said?"

"Can you pass me the salt? This is the sorriest fucking excuse for a hamburger I've ever seen."

I reach and hand it to him. He salts under the bread and all over it.

"So … did he say anything else?"

"Yes." He bites into it and speaks with his mouth full. "Fuck, y'know what? This isn't half bad." He swallows. "He asked me to go there with him."

"Of course, and you said …?"

He turns his head and looks at me sideways.

"_No_. And when I told him we needed a real church because we were getting married, he laughed, and then he immediately asked me to meet him in the men's room after I finish eating my lunch. He said he wanted to eat _his_ lunch."

I sit back.

"Jesus christ. People are crawling all over you. Has it … has it always been this way?"

"Yes. Eat, Brian. Food's getting cold. Plus, estamos consiguiendo casados."

I laugh again, delighted at his delight, but I feel unsteady. It's just so fucking weirdly jarring to see and then to hear about your own boyfriend, your _fiance_, being hit on so aggressively, right before your eyes, and in such a graphic manner, particularly when the person doing the hitting is so insanely gorgeous.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are- you said you were starved. Come off it. We're not leaving here til you down that lamb."

I slice into the meat and cut a tiny sliver.

"Do you … do you resist it, normally?"

"Brian, you're a huge star. You've probably had thousands of people come onto you. Do _you_ resist it?"

I swallow. It's very tasty indeed. I slice a bigger piece.

"Well, no. Not usually. But that's always inside of a tour, or an event or something. You, you're being hit on, totally separate from the fame thing. People don't even know who you are, and they want you. Even straights."

"Like I said, you've probably had straights too."

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so, but then … I mean, how does one tell? If they're in bed with me, doesn't that make them–"

"–Okay, it's simple. Most of the time, do you top, or bottom?"

Now it's my turn to look sideways. He continues.

"Bottom, okay. Now with the few guys you topped, those were the straight ones."

I laugh.

"But how on earth do you know? They could easily have just been bi's or fags who were bottoms, like me."

"Exactly. Like you. I don't know many bottoms who go after bottoms. I think bottoms look for tops, and vice versa, don't they?"

"Well … yes, probably, but … at the same time, it's not always apparent which is which. I mean … why do I sort of feel insulted here? Is my bottomhood that obvious?"

"There's no insult anywhere here, Brian. It's just stating facts. It's not like one's inherently better. Some people are just more naturally suited for one versus the other. It's in our genes. But yes, to answer your question, it's obvious you're a bottom."

I lay my fork down with a clink.

"What? I don't think that's true. Are you trying to say I'm a complete flamer?"

He swallows a big chunk of the hamburger, sips from the wine glass, wipes his mouth, and looks at me.

"Brian, why are you taking this like it's an insult?"

"I'm _not_ a complete flamer!"

"I never said you were. You're the one who brought up the term."

"Then what are you saying?"

He sighs.

"Jesus Christ, the arguments we get into sometimes … First of all, even if I had called you a flamer, it wouldn't be an insult- it's just our completely fucked up, twisted society that makes us think that's somehow 'bad' or something. All I'm saying, Brian, is that I think in general, tops can sense who the bottoms are out there, and vice versa, I'm sure. We're all attuned to each other and programmed to sniff out the cues either way- it's total instinct. And in your case, it's not all that difficult to detect."

"Great. So I might as well be wearing a dress."

He laughs.

"Baby, the very first time you saw me, you _were_ wearing a dress! You told me you wore one on stage at the gig in the field, remember?"

"But that was just … that was just a fashion thing I was doing! I was in between ideas at the time, and feeling lost with my old manager."

He bites into his burger again. Some of the juice drips down onto his plate.

"Okay, but you do wear bucketloads of makeup on stage, lipstick, mascara, the whole bit. You're the undisputed king of glam."

"_You_ were wearing eyeliner that first time I laid eyes on you!"

He puts down his burger and wipes his hands of the juice.

"Brian. What are you trying to accomplish here? Yes, I was wearing eyeliner. I thought it looked cool on me. I plan on wearing it again. Why are you taking everything I say as a challenge? I don't understand it. I'll say it again: there's absolutely no insult inherent in it being obvious that you're a bottom, any more than in it being obvious I'm a top, so I wish you'd quit it."

For some reason I'm having a hissy fit about it, and because of same, I proceed to totally lie.

"Well maybe it's not as obvious as you think it is, that you're a top."

He shrugs and picks up his burger again.

"Okay. Maybe it isn't. That's the first time I've heard that, but …"

"Raul certainly appears to be a top, and yet he went right after you."

"I'm not saying it never happens that tops go for tops and bottoms for bottoms. Especially in a pinch. Or that you can get your signals crossed or there can be a mis-read. I mean, I rode up on a motorcycle and Raul saw me. I don't know many bottoms who ride bikes. I'm not saying you can't be attracted to somebody regardless. What I am saying is that, as far as I'm concerned, it's sort of against the laws of nature, for tops to go with tops, generally speaking, because obviously, _some_body's gotta take it up the ass; it can't be both of you at the same time."

"Okay, well … you bottomed the entire time with Michael- 6 long months."

He nods.

"Damn skippy."

"So this brings up the question of, how do you even know you're a top? How can you be so sure? Maybe the people you've been with simply stuck their asses up in the air quicker that you could."

He laughs.

"I like that! That's a great way of looking at it. It's all a contest. A race for ass supremacy."

"Fuck off. You know what I'm saying."

"Brian, I'm baffled as to where this is coming from. I just think you're being silly in pressing this so much."

"I'm annoyed with you right now, so I can't help it."

"Why? Tell me what I did."

I sigh. I think back. I sit there pouting when I realize it, and don't want to speak. He reads my mind.

"I merely pointed out that it was unlikely for fags who were bottoms to be seeking you out after the show, or in general, because I think the visual cues of makeup and platform shoes, and not to mention, certain mannerisms such as kneeling down and giving me an electric blowjob on stage, sort of give away who wears the pants when we fuck."

I cross my arms.

"'Wears the pants'- you don't think that makes one sound superior to the other?"

"It's just a stupid 50′s expression! Do you feel inferior to me when we fuck?"

I pout.

"No."

"Of course you don't! And just for the record, I don't feel superior to you, just cuz I might happen to be on top. And I don't plan on feeling inferior to you on our wedding night. Can you see, Brian, how ridiculous this topic is?"

I consider the logic of this, slice into my food again, and then roll it around with my fork.

"Okay, point taken, but you still haven't answered my question, or rather, questions."

He groans.

"What. Ask."

"Well … I'm curious. Is it just the glam stuff that gives my preference away, or would it be obvious even without that?"

He sighs and finishes chewing.

"Maybe my mistake here is in sounding like I'm speaking for tops in general. I should only speak for myself. I'd know even without the makeup."

I go to speak but get interrupted.

"–Your next question is gonna be, 'well, how'? And if I'm honest, it's not something I think I know the answer to. Without the makeup it would be more subtle, but it would be there. I think it's one of those things we maybe don't have words for, or don't fully understand. How do you begin to understand yin/yang stuff? How do you explain the mysteries of attraction and all that? Why we're drawn to the types we're drawn to? I think it's probably in our DNA; in our chemicals and shit. 'Primal'- that word. Your body just gives off these subtle messages about your 'preference', as you called it, which by the way, to me, it isn't a preference- it's not something we choose, it's more innate, but regardless, I guess I unknowingly picked up on it and responded to it, right from the get-go. That time at the dinner table with Jerry, I was the one who sort of asked you out, or at least hinted around about it, and then the very first time we fucked, I topped. We didn't exactly stop and discuss it."

I'm listening intently. He has a way of getting to the heart of the matter and cutting through the bullshit that I find absolutely riveting, and refreshing.

"Ya, true. Not to mention, you pulled me into the room with your eyes beforehand, you initiated it in that way, and then we just sort of went with what felt right, and for me, it was letting you take charge."

"And it's been almost entirely that way between us. You could've turned the tables any time you wanted. It's not like I would've fought you. But it's just that things are the way they are between us, it seems to me anyway, because that's how we both like it. And by 'like' I mean, it's what feels more comfortable because it's what comes more naturally."

"Ya, you're right. It's absolutely true."

He gulps down another bite.

"So what was the other question?"

"The men I was with that you say were straight, just because they bottomed. I wanna know more about why you think they were straight. How can you tell such things?"

"Brian it's just that … I've been around enough of 'em to know. Remember, I tricked for smack more than a few times. It was all married businessmen on their lunch breaks, and pretty much all of them wanted to bottom."

"But how do you even know they were married?"

"Wedding bands. All of 'em."

I sit back in my seat.

"Jesus, it's completely the opposite of what I'd pictured. I figured they pick you up because they want a fresh young thing to _fuck_."

"Well, maybe with some guys they do, but in my experience, the straight guys who're straddling the fence dream about getting pummeled. They wanna know what it feels like. Which, y'know, makes sense. Because a straight guy with a girl, he does the fucking of course, right? The penetrating. They know all about what that feels like. So the second they have the chance to be the penetrate-ee, they go for it."

"Which is especially ironic, considering the nice words they use for us simpering faggots."

"Ya, the mimicry. High pitched and effeminate. When I can just about guarantee you, they're dying to bottom, to squeal like a little fucking girl."

"Cuz it sets them free, maybe. They can let loose."

"Right, they can let down their guard and quit with the fake macho exterior society forces on them. Society doesn't allow them to relinquish control and be passive. So when they go with a guy, it gives them that permission, to let somebody else be in charge, for a change. They don't have any responsibility beyond propping their butt up into the air. It's the appeal of being 'taken'."

I grin.

"Taken care of. Desired. Craved."

He looks at me.

"Is that how you view it?"

I blush.

"Ya."

He looks off, thinking as he chews.

"Ya, y'know, I've never analyzed it, but you're probably right. There is maybe an element when you bottom of feeling like you drove them to it, you made them lose control and go berserk. Especially if the guy's pounding away like a pogo stick, making mincemeat outta your ass."

I wince.

He smiles.

"Anyway, we're breaking our rule about sex-talk."

He waves his fork in the air.

"Oh baby, I think we're safe now. We're _engaged_. There's no possible way in hell we'll slip up between now and the wedding. Not a chance."

He says it with so much confidence, I wanna kick him. I slump not so much visibly, but internally.

He sips at his wine, oblivious.

I turn to him.

"Okay, if we're free to talk about it, and before I leave this topic entirely, I'll ask something else. If we all have our natural roles we gravitate to, what do you think about you bottoming that whole time with Michael, if your natural inclination was the opposite?"

"I think we've discussed this, actually. That was a situation in which, due to the differences in our ages- me being a kid, him being a grown man, plus me living on his turf and in his world, the dynamic there was overwhelmingly dictating that he would be in charge and I wouldn't. But maybe more critical was that I was young enough that I hadn't figured myself out yet. I didn't know yet which one I was more suited to."

"I'm amazed considering how good the sex was there, that you didn't lock onto the idea of bottomhood."

"Jesus knows, it was fantastic." He grins broadly.

I sigh. Any irritation I'd felt up to this point instantly melts away with the warmth of his smile.

"Alright. You've been relatively patient with me about all this. Bear with me a bit longer, because this is important. Tell me about how it makes you feel, getting pummeled."

He laughs.

"Curt, I'm serious. I want specifics- what you like about it, so I can make notes for the wedding night."

He laughs again.

"Jesus, do I really need to tell _you_ why an ass-ramming is a good thing?"

"Yes. Please. Come on."

"Brian, I don't think it's something … I think it defies description."

"Nothing defies description for you. You're very articulate, despite what you might think."

"No, you're getting 'articulate' mixed up with having a big fucking mouth."

I laugh.

"Regardless … please. At least try. I really wanna hear it from you perspective."

"Well, shit … y'know, first of all … I mean, it's been a long time, actually." He squints. "Maybe like 2 years or something. And well, I mean … there's a huge difference of course between the one-night stand pummeling, and being with somebody like Michael. _Those_ are the memories that I draw on when entertaining any 'bottom' thoughts."

"So … tell. What did you like about it?"

He blushes.

"I, I don't know. There was nothing not to like. It just, y'know, felt really fucking amazing."

"Details, please. For my research project."

He shrugs.

"Well, …" He sighs. "I don't know, just having … just being physically penetrated, and the care the person hopefully takes when they go in initially, and like, the tenderness they interject, maybe, into what is, I mean, in reality, a foreign body being pushed inside of you, into … a tight space that then has to … adjust to accommodate for it. It's inherently … inherently, I mean, you actually give up a lot, as a bottom, when I reflect on it. Much more than the top does. Emotionally, I think on some levels it's almost maybe wrenching, because you're allowing someone _in_ – inside your flesh! That's pretty heavy when you think about it, y'know? You're allowing someone to … possess you. I mean, think about what that word means for a minute. It means to control and to, y'know, _occupy_."

"To sieze."

"Ya! It's super heavy and you're sort of … defenseless. I mean, and obviously, this is when it's _voluntary_! It's just a … a pretty huge thing."

"It sounds like what you're talking about is vulnerability."

He nods.

"Ya, ya. Vulnerability. And I'm sure some of this, some of my feelings about it are colored by what happened to me in the alley, but I'm trying to jump back past that and have a pure, Michael-centered view of this and address it honestly. Cuz that, again, was where it was, y'know, good."

I brush his hand.

"So what were the qualities that made it good ?"

He sighs.

"I don't know, Brian. He was caring and loving, and then he would be pretty monstrous and just take me sometimes, almost without warning. Both were fantastic. And then him having an oversized dick certainly helped."

He laughs. I don't.

"Well, but, for the person who isn't blessed in that department–"

"–You have a nice dick."

"'Nice', that's hardly …"

He grabs my hand.

"Brian, are you kidding? I love your dick. It's highly suckable."

"But what about fuckable?"

He turns his head in exasperation.

"Holy shit, I can't believe … look, the last thing this conversation should be doing is making you feel inadequate or something. Your dick is fantastic, and believe me, I can't wait to experience it first hand."

"But what if it's–"

"–Brian, did you not hear what I just said ? For fuck's sake, let's not be comparing cock sizes, okay? It's _so_ fucking petty and cheesy. Michael was unusual; he was one in a million. And especially for somebody tight as I was at that age, it was … extraordinary. But please don't fall into that trap of thinking you _must_ have a giant dick in order to please somebody, because it's total and utter bullshit. _I_ don't have one, and yet it's worked out okay for us, right?"

"Uh, ya. Swimmingly."

"Good. So let's put that to rest."

He reaches for his matchbook and tucks a cig into the corner of his mouth, same as always. From here on, his speech is muffled slightly, as a result.

"It's just one of those things that annoys the fuck out of me- guys bragging about how big their dicks are, when by the way, what they are referring to is _length_, which, as far as I'm concerned, okay ya, deep is nice, but it's the fucking _girth_ that really gets you going. I mean, your fucking prostate gland- the root of male orgasm, as Michael used to say, is only a coupla inches up inside your asshole, so …"

We both freeze. The entire restaurant seems to have quieted, and the people at the table directly adjacent to us get up quickly to move away.

Curt takes a drag, looks round, and blows it out ahead of us. He shrugs, speaking to no one in particular.

"Sorry, people. American. Loudmouth."

We giggle. My voice drops to a whisper.

"Okay, more important question. Have you given our wedding night any thought? I mean, we've referred to it endlessly, but we've never discussed specifics."

He inhales, and blows out another drag.

"Well, do you mean …"

I lower my voice further.

"What you want, in _bed_, of course."

"Aside from having my cherry popped?"

I wince again. He continues, oblivious.

"I don't know, Brian, that's kind of up to you, isn't it?"

"How is it up to me?"

He grins.

"You're topping."

"Not the whole night, though!"

He raises a sly eyebrow.

"No?"

"NO!"

He laughs.

"Okay, but … alright, well obviously the main feature of the night for me personally, will of course be my deflowering, which, if you're asking me how I'd like that to happen, I mean … I'm sure you won't wanna _rush_ things." He inhales and exhales a drag. "We'll wanna savor that for a good long time."

"Yes, of course, but, I mean, you must have some preferences, some ideas in mind for the night _overall_."

He sits back, cig dangling, and gives me the demonic grin/heavy lids combo.

"Sure I do, but it's your job to sort of … draw them outta me, isn't it? I'm a blushing virgin here. I'm not gonna be so bold and forward as to reveal myself and spoil everything, and ruin my reputation in the process."

I laugh in exasperation. He continues, without sympathy.

"You'll have to be very, very meticulous in your coaxing, Brian. I shouldn't have _any_ idea as to the indecent, untoward plans you have up your sleeve."

"Thanks, like I'm not jittery enough about it already."

He leans forward and taps the ashes into the tray, eyes lowering to watch.

"Shit, there's no reason to feel jittery." He sits back and protrudes his lips sideways for another long drag, and whispers through the exhaled smoke.

"But since I don't want there to be any performance anxiety, which really, would be a disaster, considering how long my poor ass has been waiting, I'll drop you a few hints, if you really want."

"Yes, for pity's sake, please."

"Okay. Um, well, needless to say, we should go all night, and into most of the next day. What we do beyond the deflowering doesn't so much matter, so long as we're both sopping wet, completely hoarse, and well fucking spent."

My cock twitches terribly.

"But if you want specific clues, I'd have to say that a moonlit beach on a warm, breezy night is an awful nice thing."

I smile. "Okay."

"And as for the bedroom, or whatever rooms we find ourselves in … um … I've been thinking about this off and on for a while … I wouldn't mind maybe exploring something new, something I've never actually engaged in. But, this thing I'm thinking of, it sorta scares the shit outta me, to be perfectly honest. It's nothing fancy or anything, it's pretty small, but still … I'm completely torn up about it."

His eyes lower to flick the ashes again, then raise to mine.

My brow furrows.

"Jesus, well … What on earth is it?"

He smiles.

"I'm not gonna just spill, Brian. It'd be a lot sexier if you figured it out on your own."

"But, I need a clue, at least!"

He stubs out a cig, and gestures to our waiter that we're ready for the bill, then leans back in his seat and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"We'll see."

"You devious bastard. You're gonna make me chase around for it?"

He shrugs.

"No, more like sniff around." He grins. I groan.

"Brian, come on. You have to admit, there's something incredibly delicious about, y'know, … an erotic … mystery. I'm kinda turned on by the idea of you slowly peeling back the layers."

Raul approaches and goes to hand Curt the bill. I rip it away in annoyance. I _am_ sitting here, y'know!

Curt continues as if Raul can't hear him.

"I'm a virgin. So there needs to be a lot of care and attention going into it. Into the _discovery_."

Our waiter's body language suggests that he's rather startled, and most definitely listening.

I lean over the bill and sign the bottom. He continues, not even attempting to lower his voice.

"So y'know, you have a choice. Do you wanna rip all my clothes off in one shot, have the buildup be all over with right then, or … savor it, peel it away, little by little, bit by bit ? Because … my preference would definitely be the latter."

Raul gulps audibly and shifts in place. I hand him the bill, and he walks off.

Curt slouches down in his seat, giggling.

"Congratulations. You've probably just given our waiter a massive hard-on. And you're gonna give me one next, if you keep talking that way."

"Okay, but I was serious."

"I know what you're saying, Curt, it sounds great on paper, but what if I don't bloody well figure it out? I don't wanna disappoint you on that night of all nights."

He shoots me a heavy lidded look. "You'll figure it out." He whispers and leans toward me, "I gotta piss," and walks into the restaurant.

In a moment, Raul returns with my receipt.

I look up and imagine myself asking for his input.

* * *

><p>"So what do you think he means?"<p>

"I confess I do not know, senor."

I look back nervously towards the door he walked through a minute ago.

"Come on, Raul, think on your feet! You look like a good, sturdy top. What would both terrify and tantalize a fellow top, in bed?"

He grins.

"Oh, senor, you are a lucky man. It must inevitably involve an element or risk, or perhaps, danger."

"So what, doing it on the edge of the roof? Doing it while hang gliding?"

"Or perhaps it is something deeper, senor. Less physical, more of the mind."

"But how on earth do I figure this out in time for our wedding?"

"Well, in Spain, there is a belief that a good lover makes it his business to study his partner quite fiercely. You must examine and re-examine Senor Wild like a book; his wants and desires and fears, those expressed as well as unexpressed. And despite what you may think, senor, he has given you a clue, perhaps a more revealing one than you may now realize- in saying that the thing he desires also frightens him a great deal. You must explore and penetrate the mind, the psyche, as much as you would the body. He has given you a challenge, senor. You must rise to it, and develop a thirst for boldness, for spontaneity, for adventure."

I laugh in exasperation.

"Oh great, thanks. So I have to swoop down like fucking Zorro on our wedding night, in a black cape and mask? I mean, do I look like a Spaniard to you?"

"No, senor, but then I am not the one with the rescue fantasies."

* * *

><p>Pop! When I come to, Curt is sitting himself down.<p>

"All set?"

I frown. "No."

He puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh my baby, don't be upset! I have every faith in you!"

"Great, I'm glad somebody does."

I sigh and turn towards him.

"I'm afraid I'll fuck this up."

"Stop it, Brian. It's not possible. And shit, all we're doing here is talking about me, and what I want. What about you? It's _our_ wedding night. What do _you_ want?"

"For fuck's sake, I just want _at_ you! And believe me, by then it'll be deadly serious!"

We laugh.

"Okay, but you're not answering the question. Same one you put to me."

I look off, thinking. Jesus, there are so many … after a minute I realize … I don't wanna tell him! Or rather, I don't want to _plan_ it. I want it to … develop naturally, freely.

I sit back, grin, and cross my arms.

"I'm not gonna tell you."

He leans forward, laughing in delight, and slaps the table top with his hand.

"I don't wanna spoil it, I'm realizing. It's too important. I want it to be really special. Fresh, and spontaneous."

We smile at each other for a long moment, after which, he reaches for my hand.

"I knew it. I'm marrying the right man."


	32. I Can't See That He'd Turn Us Away

We enter the bookstore and split up; Curt heading for the Greek history and literature, and Mark Twain, and me perusing the magazines and travelogues. When I next spy him, heading from one aisle to the other, he's got a small but growing pile in his arms, and when we meet up 15 minutes later, it's extended from his wrist up his shoulder.

"What, you didn't find anything?"

I shrug.

"I'm just not in the mood. I'm antsy."

"Too bad, this place is incredible. We'll have to come back when you're in a better mood."

"It's not that I'm a bad mood, I'm just anxious to start planning. We have very little time and lots to do."

He looks down at his pile sheepishly.

"I know; you're right."

I examine it. "Curt, most of these books are in Spanish!"

He grins.

"Well I figure, this time next year, I'll be fluent." His face becomes serious. "Remember, a sentence a day. _Two_ sentences."

"I know, I know." I'm rifling through the pile. "Jesus, the Iliad in Spanish?" I open it up. "Wow, it's a really old volume."

"Ya! Isn't that incredible? And only a buck! And I got a book on Greek mythology, written in Spanish. How weird is that?"

I grab them from him. "Alright, go start the bike, I'll be out in a sec."

"Brian, I have some money. Let me pay for them."

"No, it's alright. I'm making Bijou pay for absolutely everything. Maybe even our wedding."

He grins sly and walks with me to the register.

"Where shall we honeymoon? Spain?"

* * *

><p>On the ride home the sun sends warm rays down on us. The salty breeze is calm and refreshing and the waves splash and pitch off to our left. Over and over, I find myself sighing with contentment.<p>

"Did you ever think life could be this beautiful?"

He laughs.

"You know what I wanna do, Brian? Just stay on this bike with you forever. I don't wanna go home, I don't wanna go anywhere or arrive any place, I just wanna keep riding off into the fucking sunset."

"I know. It's completely bloody seductive being down here. I keep having to literally remind myself I have a job at all. I keep forgetting I haven't lived here all along, with you." I kiss his neck. "You've turned my whole world completely upside down."

He grasps my hands momentarily.

"Same here, baby."

"Let's take the longest way home."

"We gotta lotta planning to do Demon, but … okay … which way, sir?"

I look round, and point down a small road to our right. The bike turns quickly.

"Careful! For fuck's sake!"

"Just hang on; you'll be fine."

"You scare the shit out of me, Curt!"

"I'm a good driver, quit fucking worrying! Geez!"

We pass a field and some older farmhouses. Some forest, and more fields.

"Brian, what do you think will happen?"

"With what?"

"When we get back."

"With what, the record?"

"No, … with Mandy, and all that."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, how's she gonna take this marriage business? And are we even gonna tell people?"

I ponder this a minute.

"I don't know. It could be our little secret."

"But if we don't tell people, it's like it isn't real."

"Well …"

"I mean, I know it isn't _real_ real, on paper, but to me it will be. In my heart it will be."

I grasp him tighter. I sigh.

"I don't know. I don't know what to do, but it sounds like you wanna tell people."

"Well … that's my gut feeling, but … I don't know either. This is all kinda strange. How do you think would Mandy take it?"

"She won't like it."

"Will she divorce you?"

I laugh. "Are you kidding? I'm her pot of gold! And she absolutely thrives on being Mrs Space Freak. Did you know she gets nearly as many autograph requests as I do?"

"But what do you think she'd do? She hates my guts."

"It's hard to say. She's crafty. She'll try and cause trouble for you, certainly. She'll try and drive you away, because you'll be even more of a threat to her than before. She'll badmouth you."

"To the press?"

"No, no, not to the press. She'd never let it get out to that degree, I'm sure. I just mean to … everyone else. Record company people, people in the business that she knows, etc."

"Wow. Does she have any sway, though?"

"Depends. Depends on who she's fucking that week. And if they'll listen to her."

"Jesus. So could she stop my record from happening, do you think?"

"No. She'd probably like to think she could, but that won't happen. I won't let it, and thankfully I _do_ have a tad more sway than she does."

"But you can't divorce her."

More a statement, than a question.

"You know I can't, Curt. Jerry would never permit it. Like I said, she's extremely popular with the fans and it would damage things; my image, very likely my career, etc. Plus, she'd absolutely take me for every penny. Her brother's a high powered lawyer. He'd represent her for free. I'd be a near-pauper."

He doesn't respond. The silence is deafening.

I kiss his ear.

"Don't be upset, my angel. You know I'd love things to be different."

"I know. I understand. It's business and all that, but it still sucks. I mean, how are we supposed to be a couple and have our own life if we don't even fucking live together?"

"What are you talking about? We're gonna live together."

He turns his head.

"How? With Mandy in the next room?"

"Curt, Mandy and I haven't lived together for several months. She keeps a separate flat full time in London, only it's hush-hush. How we've managed to keep it out of the papers, I don't honestly know."

He ponders this.

"Christ … I had no idea."

"Ya, so if you think I'm not moving you straight into the house, and into my bedroom when we get back, you're completely nuts."

He laughs.

"Wow, so we'd be living together for real? In London? That's pretty fucking heavy."

I kiss the side of his neck.

"I absolutely can't wait. You'll love it. It's got everything; bloody maids and butlers, big heated pool. And it's 10 minutes to central London. You could walk it."

"What if the press finds out, though? Don't they hound you?"

"So far they haven't figured out where I live. It's the best kept secret in all of England. And only a few fans seem to know. Jerry is very _very_ up on security. So, so long as we keep a low profile and go incognito outside the grounds, we'll be fine, I think."

"But, I mean, even if we were discovered leaving your house together, doesn't the press think we're a couple anyway?"

"I think the press thinks we're having a big juicy fling. Well, that's what Jerry tried to promote in the beginning, anyway."

"No wonder Mandy hates me."

"I don't think she has anything against you personally, it's just that you're a threat to her stardom. To her spotlight."

He ponders this a moment.

"Do you think it could actually work, Brian?"

"What?"

"Us, as a couple, living together, and all that."

"Well … you'll be stepping into my world, which isn't terribly pretty. It'll be a very different thing from being here. Here we're free. We're incognito. We're completely on our own and we set our own schedule and do what we want. Back there, my life is in the hands of other people for the most part. It's very pressurized, Curt. It's not easy to live that way. You might not like it."

He's silent for a long while.

"All I know is, I love you and I wanna be with you. It seems simple to me, but I know that's probably naive."

I kiss his ear.

"It's not. It's beautiful. We'll make it work, my angel. We'll get away as much as we can. There's the estate out in the country, which is completely private and secluded."

"You have _two_ places?"

"Three, if you count Mandy's flat I'm paying for."

"Fuck. So what is it like? Where?"

"An hour south of London by the water. Big old mansion, humongous grounds. We have a staff there as well, gardeners, etc. We even keep horses."

"No way!"

"Oh, absolutely. We'll go riding. I always do. We'll have to get you the proper English riding duds."

He bursts out laughing.

"With the little fucking bowler hat? I'd look _ridiculous_ !"

I kiss the side of his neck.

"I think you'd look incredibly handsome, actually. Those white riding pants are rather on the tight side, and the black jacket is fitted exactly to your specs."

I slide a hand up and across his chest.

"I'll be sure to measure you myself."

He squirms.

"Enough of that, Demon. I'm driving here."

I sigh.

"Jesus, even just touching you like that … I can't imagine how I'll survive 5 days."

"You'll live. Let's just focus on all we have to do now. Like get home and start making calls."

"We need suits!"

"Or wedding gowns."

"Fuck off! We have to buy proper clothing. I want a stunning Armani suit, all white."

"Holy shit, yes! White! Both of us! Like Lennon & Yoko- Not just one, but _Two_ Virgins!"

We burst out laughing.

"I'm serious! It's a fantastic idea, only I doubt we could get designer stuff down here, Brian."

"And RINGS! We need RINGS!"

"Holy shit, I hadn't even thought of it."

"Okay, but it all starts with finding the bloody church, doesn't it?"

Approximately 30 seconds after saying this, as we're passing an empty field, Curt shouts to me to hang on, and before that phrase has registered in my brain, the bike suddenly swerves sickeningly, we skid, there is a screech of braking tires, a kick up of dust behind us, and we leave the pavement. How I manage to keep from flying off into the air, I don't know. We stop.

I jump off. I'm fuming. I'm shouting.

"What the fuck is the MATTER with you! ? Are you trying to get us KILLED ? ! Will you STOP fucking driving like a goddamned _maniac_ for once, arsehole ? That's it! Never again! I'm _not_ riding with you anymore! I'm WALKING HOME ! !"

He's climbed off and is looking at me. Halfway through my diatribe, he starts grinning, which only makes me angrier.

"What is _WRONG_ with you ! ? WHAT in the bloody fucking _HELL_ are you _SMILING AT ? !"_

He approaches me and puts both hands on top of my shoulders. I'm so angry I try to bat his arms away but he manages to turn me round in place, to face the direction he's facing. Once I'm turned, he holds me from behind, with his arms across my chest.

There before us, set far off the road, sits the sweetest, smallest, most beautiful, ornate, if a tad worn, old wooden chapel, complete with stained glass, a small steeple, and decorative cross on top.

The breath leaves me. I'm in disbelief. I whisper.

"Curt, it's …"

"It's where we're getting married."

I lay a hand over his.

"But we don't … they probably won't–"

"–It's where we're getting married, Brian."

* * *

><p>We approach. I'm both excited and nervous. The little front steps and railing are rickety. We open the heavy, oversized wooden door and walk in.<p>

It's instantly cooler inside, and smells a bit on the musty side. We clasp hands and move slowly through the small entryway, the floor creaking and moaning with each step.

The light streams in through the tall, colorful stained glass on either side, creating a particularly serene, comforting glow, with dusty rays of light spanning across the smallish main room, which contains perhaps 7 or 8 rows of ornate, unpainted pews, and a small alter, behind which, up high on the back wall, hangs a moderately intimidating and relatively realistic looking crucifix.

I whisper, looking around us.

"I can't believe it."

"I know."

"Catholic, though."

He ponders this a moment.

"Is that good for us or bad for us?"

I look at him.

"Curt, the Catholic church is notoriously anti-homo. It's even written in their bible; 'abomination' and all that, but we aren't likely to find much else. Spanish speaking countries tend to be heavily Catholic."

We stop to take in the sight of the crucifix. Unlike most I've seen, Jesus' eyes are open, and peering down at us.

"What's the thing about abomination? What does it say?"

"Um, I think … I think it was that Jesus supposedly said, um, that if a man laid with a man, it was an abomination. Something like that."

"But he hung out with prostitutes and outcasts and lepers and shit."

"Shhhh! Don't swear in here!"

He laughs softly and looks at me.

"Brian, come on. I'm already going to hell as far as they're concerned. What harm will a little cussing do?"

"Sorry, it's just … programming. My family's Irish. We were made to go to church all through school, up til I graduated."

"Wow. I haven't even been inside of a church since I was a tiny little kid."

We return to pondering the cross.

"You know what?" he asks, "I sort of doubt Jesus ever said that. From what I've heard, he seemed like a cool guy. And I mean, I just can't imagine, in a time when people were barbaric enough to stone each other to death, and hang people from crosses by their hands til they died, that he would have cared about two guys making out."

I shrug. "Apparently their idea is that it's against nature."

He looks at me.

"Mowing your lawn is against nature. Shaving is against nature. Cutting down trees that probably housed families of squirrels and birds in order to build this _church_ was against nature."

I pat his hand.

"Okay; I know, I agree. More importantly, how do we feel about this place?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it's … absolutely magnificent."

"Ya, it's got a real subtle beauty to it. I like that it's old and used. Great vibes."

I nod.

"Definitely. The natural lighting alone." I peruse the ornate chandeliers and frescoes. "The history. I'm sort of in love with it, I'm afraid."

"Why afraid?"

"Because they … Curt, we're crazy to expect them to let us go through with it. I'm afraid of getting all dreamy eyed only to have them crush our plans."

"They're not gonna crush our plans."

"But how do you know? It's not like we'll have any say in the matter. We're not welcome here. It's their building."

He looks down and runs his hand along the back of a dusty pew.

"This place probably hasn't seen a wedding in 40 years. It _needs_ an injection of love and romance."

My heart swells. I grasp his hand between mine and turn to him.

"That's really a lovely thought, but … we're sort of half human in their eyes. We _are_ the abomination, to them. Two blokes trying to tie the knot? They'll see it as total blasphemy. Sacrilege."

He studies my face for a long while before speaking softly.

"Sacrilege comes from the root word 'sacred'. It they don't understand that true love is sacred, then there isn't any hope for them."

He lays a gentle hand along my jaw. I can't help but curl my face towards it.

"We're right, Brian. You and I know that. It's just a matter of time before the world catches on."

I sigh. I shiver. Just looking into his eyes, just having him touch me like this …

"We'll work it out, I promise. It's true, what they say,"

His face closes in.

"… love conquers all."

In the warm glow of the stained glass, mere feet from the alter, our lips meet, here on this consecrated ground where babies have been baptized, where foreheads have been crossed with ashes and holy water, where sins have been confessed and forgiven, where couples have been joined and bound, all under the still, quiet gaze of Jesus himself.

At this moment, looking down on us, I can't see that he'd turn us away.

After a mesmerisingly soft, head-spinningly sweet kiss, he retreats. I, however, am still recovering. For a minute I can't move or open my eyes. I'm frozen in place, still leaning slightly toward him, not wanting the moment, the feeling, to pass.

He brushes his thumb against my chin and laughs.

"Brian Slade, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love."

* * *

><p>On the way back, anxious and excited as we are to get home and begin making our various calls and plans, we first stop at the motorbike rental place, where as far as Curt's concerned, we're merely extending the rental until we leave, seeing as it's such a handy vehicle for us. Little does he know that right under his nose, I'm buying him his very first wedding gift- the bike itself. The rental man argues with me in Spanish, I argue back, we barter over his lost rental revenue and the value of the bike, all while Curt mills about behind us, completely oblivious, looking over engines and riding gear. Finally, after throwing in an additional 700 pesos, the man agrees to the deal, including it's shipment to London the day we fly back. I figure I'll enroll Curt in a driver's safety course the next day.<p>

At last we are outside and I'm so tickled with having pulled it off exactly under his nose, that I'm giggling.

"What the hell's so funny? What were you guys talking about that whole time? And what was all that fucking paperwork?"

"Nothing, I just … he was arguing with me, and I won. We'll return it the day we leave."

He shrugs and swings a leg over, and I'm once again treated to the glories of the Kick Start. I've learned to stand back as he does this, for the best view, and also so as not to be in his way when he lands with force and muscle. Five curse-ridden spine-tingling grunts later, it engages, and I feel no guilt at all. I climb on, lean forward to cling to his waist, and press my face into his neck.

"They have electric start bikes now," he shouts back at me. "You just turn a little fucking key."

"Oh, you don't want one of those, Curt. They're for bottoms. This is a top's bike."

As we take off, I'm grinning like a fool.

* * *

><p>At the house he's dialing the phone.<p>

"Hello, Maria, it's Curt."

All the way across the room, I hear a high pitched shriek. He pulls the phone back from his face momentarily and laughs, after which, I hear more high pitched, excited talk.

"No," he looks up at me, "Brian and I are still together."

I drop my jaw and throw my hands up into the air in exasperation.

"In fact that's why I'm calling. Maria, this will probably sound completely crazy, but bear with me, because we're totally serious. Brian and I," he sighs, "we've decided we wanna get married, I mean, we know men can't officially marry and all that, but we wanna have a ceremony … ya, … oh … oh, I'm so glad you think so; that's really sweet." He holds his hand over the mouthpiece and whispers to me.

"She says it's an incredibly lovely idea." He returns to the conversation.

"Ya, I agree with you- the whole world is backwards about this stuff … so you don't think we're nuts … good, wow …, well …, well that's actually the reason we called, aside from inviting all of you. You're the only people we know here, and with you having a gay son, we thought … okay. Yes, exactly, we want it to be as official as possible. Do you know any priests or pastors or whatever? … Oh my god, are you kidding? That's incredible … fantastic … Are you sure? Maria, we don't want to put you and your family out … wow, far out … you're amazing. You're absolutely sure? I mean I know this is short notice … okay."

He peers up at the clock. "7?" He looks at me. I nod.

"Ya, that'd be perfect. See you at 7. We rented a bike, we could go to your house … okay. We'll see you here, then. We honestly can't thank you enough, Maria. Hmm? No, sure, bring her along." He hangs up.

"Bring who along?"

"Her daughter's home from college." He stands and approaches. His eyes are positively sparkling.

"Brian, I'm not kidding, I think this is actually gonna happen !"

He takes both of my hands and is practically hopping around with excitement.

The realization stuns me- we really are going to do it. My eyes widen, my heart springs up in my chest and is beating so fast I'm at a near-pant.

As he continues, his voice trembles, and climbs an octave.

"She said their priest is a long-time friend of the family and totally cool with homos because of David- he baptized him and he's watched him grow up. She said she'll talk to him, but she can pretty much guarantee he'll officiate! I can't believe it, Brian ! I can't fucking believe it ! We are GOING to get married ! NO bullshit !"

"Oh my god, Curt. Oh my god–!"

He suddenly grabs round the waist and lifts me straight into the air and holds me there, practically shouting as he looks up.

"–She said she's had discussions with him for years and years about the second class status of queers in the world, and in the church, and he thinks it's totally wrong! She said she knows a jeweler in town for the wedding rings! She said she knows where we can get a really beautiful, good quality wedding cake! She said she'll make the rest of the food herself! And she's offered us their house for the reception !"

He drops me finally, and I'm shaking and dizzy and beside myself, with excitement, with nerves, with glee, and also due to the momentary lack of circulation in being held so tightly.

We throw our arms around each other and laugh and jump and squeal.

"It's really true! It's really gonna happen, Curt! Fuck the whole goddam bloody world! Fuck 'em!"

He turns his head towards the screen door and yells at the top of his lungs.

"Fuck you _ALL_, motherfuckers ! Y'think we're not FUCKING human? Y'think we're second class? Get the fuck out of our way, we're getting MARRIED !"

Hearing it. Hearing it spoken like that … Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with emotion. I grab him and bury my face in his neck, sobbing with joy.

He gently rubs my back as I speak through the sniffles.

"I don't know if you actually have any idea how much I love you. I'm almost afraid of it, how happy you make me. I don't know what I'd do without you. I couldn't live–"

"–Shhh, we're getting married, my baby. We really are. You won't have to worry about that anymore. We'll belong to each other. We really will."

When I pull back, his eyes have welled and his face is damp. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The space between our wet faces closes, and our kiss is one of love, hope, and promise.

* * *

><p>Over a light dinner of fresh crusty bread and spicy Spanish noodles, we plan.<p>

"I sort of want it formal, and like, traditional."

I nod and scratch down notes in a pad.

"Oh, of course, definitely. Any other way, and it would be like we weren't being serious." I squeeze his hand.

He points to the pad.

"Suits. Rings."

"Plain gold bands."

"I want silver."

"No; gold, Curt. It goes with your coloring. Silver's for brunettes."

"We have to have vows. We have to write our own."

"Of course."

"And a big feast."

"Huge. That wine we had at the restaurant, we should buy a case of that."

"Dancing."

He looks up.

"Dancing?"

"Yes, Curt. We'll have to have our first dance. It's tradition."

"I don't know how to dance like that."

I smile.

"Then you'll have to be shown."

"What about music? We're not gonna hire a band, are we?"

I wince.

"God no. Nothing is worse than a band that plays weddings for pity's sake. We'll make our own music, and Manuel and Juan can maybe play, too."

"I might write a song. I haven't written anything in a while."

I'm perusing the list.

"So we'll have the ceremony, which will be breathtakingly beautiful, and all the women will cry, and we'll both cry, then we'll have the 3 tier cake,"

"With two grooms on top."

"A big fat giant fucking feast, our dance, then everyone will dance- Maria will be all over you for that, I'm sure. We'll have music and we'll play a bit, we'll get high on wine and–"

He grins.

"–Love."

"Yes, that. And round about midnight or so, we'll speed home on your, er, _the_ bike, with a big 'apenas casado' sign on the back- 'just married', flapping in the wind behind us …"

"Cans tied together, clinking the whole way. Shit, I might even lay on the fucking horn just to wake up the whole island."

I look up from the notepad and meet his eyes.

"… and then, the night will begin."

He leans close and whispers. His eyes are a deep, magnificent blue.

"The sacred deflowering."

We kiss quickly.

"Officially sanctioned by the church."

We kiss slowly. His lips are achingly soft. We part, with reluctance, and remain close.

I'm trembling slightly. I run a hand up his jaw.

"I won't be able to stop, you realize, when I'm finally able to."

He grins. "Able to what?"

"Devour you whole."

I move my face into his hair.

"Bloody hell. How come you always smell so good? Why is that? You should smell like dirt and petrol right now."

"Well if that turns you on, I can arrange it."

I sigh and pull back.

"So … the big night. Any hints for me?"

He sits back and smiles.

"I don't recall us ever discussing hints. I said you had to draw me out."

"Curt, we don't have time for such things. You said you wanted to try something new that scared you."

"And I said it was nothing all that fancy. I'm sure it's extremely common, though I guess I wouldn't really know. It's small, and simple, and something we could do just about anywhere." He grins. "How about that, for hints?"

"Worthless. At least tell me what scares you about it."

He looks down and mashes the noodles with the side of his fork.

"It's … it's something that … it's intriguing, I'm curious about it even though, in some real ways, it's not even sexual. It's weird. It embarrasses me, and it makes me nervous as hell, the thought of it. But I sorta feel it calling me even though there are … even though, I feel …"

"What?"

"I feel … I feel … just really fucking _confused_ about it, Brian. About why on earth I of all people, would want it. I don't feel like I should."

"But why?"

He squirms a bit.

"Because it's … _really_ scary for me. It's something that sort of straddles a line, or _can_ straddle a line I'm incredibly … uncomfortable with. I'm sort of terrified of what it will pull up in me. I could see it easily turning negative."

He stops dead, and shakes his head. "That's all I'm gonna say."

"Jesus Christ, you can't imagine how confused you have me right now. I'm even further from knowing what on earth you're talking about."

"Well, maybe that's good. I don't honestly wanna spoil it. I don't wanna ruin the potential magic. Of course, it could prove a total disaster, too."

"Are you sure you wanna do this on our wedding night? You don't think it's maybe a bit … risky?"

"Not really, because it's about trust. I trust you completely. And I have this feeling it could be scorching hot in the right hands."

"Curt,–"

"–Brian, just remember. It may sound like a big deal, but it's something extremely simple, and if you don't figure it, I'll tell you that night, why don't we leave it at that? But, in my heart I feel like, even though we haven't known each other very long, we've been down so many miles together that you know me probably better than anyone else on earth so … I'm sure it'll come to you. It's not all that hard, actually."

"Easy for you to say."

"Well, you haven't exactly told me what _you_ want, y'know."

I touch his hand.

"The only thing I want in this entire world is you."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Okay, I gather nobody reads these little author's notes, but I'm still doing them, goddamit. I just wanted to mention that this chapter contains one of my very favorite bits in this entire lengthy story, as it has action, imagery, high emotion, humor, and romance all packed into one : the bit where Curt lets the bike skid off the road almost without warning (what - you didn't <em>seriously_ expect Curt Wild to be a good, safe driver, did you?), causing Brian to bounce rigorously about behind him on the seat and almost get catapulted off into the air, and Brian's ensuing (and as far as he's concerned) completely justifiable rage/outrage ... only to have Curt, maddeningly enough, _start grinning in his face ..._ which of course makes Brian doubly furious ... only to then be bodily turned around - with Brian fighting Curt the whole way - in order to face the discovery of what Curt instantly knows will be their future wedding chapel. _

_(And while I'm at it, I also rather like the church kiss.) _

_One more thing: "Mowing your lawn is against nature" is an absolutely brilliant direct quote spoken by the great Rufus Wainwright in response to a boneheaded reverend opining to the world that homosexuality was "against nature" - this was on Bill Maher's original show "Politically Incorrect" back in 2001._


	33. If You Aren't There With Me

Before long, it's 7pm, and the doorbell is ringing.

We answer it, and Maria bursts through and flings her arms round Curt and kisses the side of his neck.

"Oh Curt! I'm so excited! I'm so happy for you both!"

I'm standing aside and she wraps me in a bear hug as well, almost shouting in my ear. "Brian! It's wonderful!" She's hard not to like.

Over her shoulder I spy a figure in the shadow of the porch.

"Angelina, come in, dear." She turns to me, grinning. "My daughter's a bit on the shy side, unlike her mother."

The creature that then steps into my living room seems to have an immediate impact on the temperature. Long, straight honey-blonde hair, the poutiest lips I've seen this side of Hollywood, enormous sea-green eyes, disgustingly clear skin, and to my profound disappointment, though they are discreetly hidden behind her blouse, firm, fairly ample young tits.

My eyes shoot to Curt, who is not smiling. He seems stunned in fact, though it could be my imagination.

Maria gestures to us.

"Angelina, these are our friends, Brian and Curt."

Curt extends a hand, and the creature raises her eyes to his and smiles shyly at first, before a small spark seems to ignite, and she stumbles a moment. She shakes his hand. Her voice is soft. Her English is excellent.

"You're .. you're Curt Wild."

Maria looks from her daughter to Curt.

"Oh, is that your last name?"

Angelina turns her head.

"Mama, he's a singer."

Maria nods.

"I know honey. He sang for us." She looks at me. "He and Brian."

"No, mama," she says, and turns back to Curt, her face flushed. "I really love your music. I'm a big fan. I have both your records back at school."

Curt seems astonished.

"You _do _? Jesus … I can't believe it. You must be the only one."

She shakes her head.

"No. My friends- we think you're amazing."

Maria pipes in.

"Wow. I didn't know you had records out, Curt. You'll have to play them for us."

I stifle a chuckle.

"Say hello to Brian, honey."

She turns to me, clearly quite reluctant to drop Curt's hand, and I experience the same ego-stroking shock of recognition in her eyes. I won't say I'm not pleased. Here in Ibiza, I've been entirely ignored, and it does get a bit old.

"Wow, Brian Slade. I can't believe it." She gestures between myself and Curt. "So you two really are …"

"A couple, yes, a _married_ one, pretty soon." I offer helpfully.

"Wow, that is so cool. Really heavy." She sounds eerily like Curt.

We invite them into the kitchen where I prepare tea. When I turn round with the tray, I'm unsurprised to find the two women bookending Curt at the table. Really, if he wanted it every day of his life, he wouldn't even have to do anything- the orgy would come to him.

* * *

><p>Over the next near-hour, we discuss food, cake, rings, the timing and logistics of the ceremony, music, etc. I turns out that Angelina is an amateur wedding planner.<p>

"I have helped two of my friends with their weddings."

Curt seems overwhelmed. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Um, this is like, pretty involved. I don't want it to be too complicated. I want it to feel sort of natural, and simple."

Maria places her hand over his.

"I think you might have a touch of nerves, Curt. It's normal. I was terrified when I got married. I was only 20- Angelina's age."

The latter looks up at Curt and smiles shyly. The flush in her cheeks is unmistakable.

I cough in annoyance.

There is an awkward lull in the conversation after which Angelina's stomach growls audibly.

She holds her hand to it and blushes further.

"I'm so sorry."

"Honey, you should have eaten before we left."

"I wasn't hungry, mama."

Curt pipes in helpfully.

"Please have something to eat while you're here. Brian's a fantastic cook. We just had these spicy noodles before you arrived. They're probably still warm."

"No, thank you. I could not."

"Really, we have tons of food in the house. I would love you both to enjoy some of it. Please. Seriously."

He looks at me. I of course am compelled to join in on the invite, even though I'd rather keep the noodles for us. They were made from fresh dough and take a lot of work. Plus, sweet as she might be, the ongoing presence of a young beautiful blushing blonde in the house is beginning to irritate me; I had almost thought they were ready to leave.

"Oh yes, please," I add. "You must try some."

I rise to fill two plates and serve them both, sitting down opposite. Almost immediately I realize the mistake.

Angelina twirls the noddles onto her fork, after which, there is something mesmerisingly sensual in the way the swirled food slides past those achingly beautiful, full, pouty lips. And then, about every third forkful, a long strand will loosen, which she will then proceed to softly suck inward. If it hasn't exactly made me hard, I'm finding it impossible to look away, and so I can pretty much guarantee that Curt is feeling it. His eyes are certainly glued to her as she eats, the bastard.

"Absolutely delicious, Brian. Thank you so much," Maria helpfully offers.

"Yes, wonderful. I must have the recipe."

"Angelina is a wonderful cook. She will make someone the perfect wife, some day."

The blonde thing blushes further.

"Mama, please."

Maria laughs. I smile. A glance at Curt has him still staring at the pouty lips as they finish slurping the last noodles inward.

"Would you like more?" The bastard immediately offers.

I stand to clear the table.

"We're pretty much all out, I'm afraid," I say, knocking into Curt with my elbow as I pass.

Maria clasps her hands.

"So is there anything we've left out?"

"I don't think so," I quickly respond from the sink.

"Oh! What about the dance ?" Maria responds. "Are you two okay with that ? Angelina teaches dance part time! She's fantastic, aren't you, honey?"

In exasperation, I drop a plate into the sink and it somehow crashes without breaking. I'm picturing that it's Angelina's face.

"Mama, please. I'm sure that Curt and Brian will be just fine."

I return to the table and Maria is looking at us earnestly.

"You are going to have a dance, right?"

Curt looks at me.

"Ya, I guess, aren't we ?"

I nod. "Yes, we will."

Maria smiles. Her eyes are sparkling. "It will be so beautiful! Are you two comfortable with a formal dance in front of a small crowd?"

Curt hesitates and looks at me. He's shy and embarrassed, which is why he's hesitating. He doesn't know that I'm at war with myself. I want the dance, I want it desperately, which is why Curt will have to learn- because it will be the most romantic moment of the night, beyond the vows and the first kiss, however, I can't help myself, I want this beautiful girl out of my house, as quickly as possible. Before I can respond however, Maria pipes in. I want to strangle her.

"Please let Angelina show you just a bit of a waltz. She dances beautifully. I promise you, you won't be sorry."

Why do I know that I will be.

"Mama, no! They are fine without me!"

Maria places a hand on her shoulder.

"Honey, for an event as special as this, everyone can use a little refresher."

Curt smiles.

"Okay, sure."

I stifle a groan.

All four of us stand next to the table. Maria then sits and watches as Angelina arranges Curt and I together.

"Oh, closer, please. This is your first dance as a married couple. Closer."

Right now I'm so annoyed with Curt, the last thing I want is to hold him.

She puts our arms in place and to my annoyance, continues to urge us closer. Something feels awkward. Then it hits me; she has put me in the lead.

"Um, hold a sec."

Curt repositions himself so that my hand rests in his and my arm is lowered from his shoulder down to his waist.

"There."

Great. Just go ahead and declare to the two women watching who takes it up the ass, why don't you. I'm too embarrassed to look at either of them, and too steamed at Curt to look at him, so I gaze off in the opposite direction, terribly, terribly annoyed.

Angelina goes on, oblivious.

"Now, a proper waltz involves 4 steps, as you may know."

"Brian knows. He's good at dancing, actually," Curt offers, "I'm the ignorant one."

"Oh, honey, why don't you stand in for Brian, then? Show Curt the steps," Maria immediately pipes in. My face falls hard. I had thought she had thought Curt was gay, but now I'm wondering. Did someone tell her he's bi?

Curt immediately backpedals.

"No, no, that's okay. It's probably better if Brian and I do it together, I think."

Maria stands and places a hand on his shoulder. She seems to grasp every opportunity to touch him.

"You will, Curt, you will. It will just be a lot easier if you feel comfortable with your own dancing first, especially on such an important occasion. I really think it's best if Angelina shows you, and then you can practice all you want with Brian, if that's okay."

Great. Fucking fantastic. I stand back and force a smile.

"Yes. I agree." I resist the urge to storm out of the room. Maria is right, of course, but it doesn't mean I'm gonna be an adult about it.

I plop myself down at the table, behind the two fussing women, crossing my arms, facing Curt, my unhappy expression telling him everything.

He gulps and fidgets, clearly looking for a way out, but there isn't one. Maria turns her daughter toward him. There is no hesitation, I notice, nor a moment's confusion, regarding who will lead.

Maria stands by them, beaming as Angelina looks down at their feet, explaining the steps in a shy whisper, her face growing ever more flushed.

After a bit of direction, they begin moving together effortlessly, and really, it looks beautiful. Even in my jealousy and pissyness, I have to admit it's true. She's a good teacher.

"Gorgeous!" Maria bellows, her face a mask of delight and pride.

Curt laughs. He's surprised at his own ease of movement. The prick.

"You dance beautifully," Angelina offers.

"No, you're the one. I'm a klutz. You're easy to learn from."

The two spin slowly round the room together.

Angelina laughs shyly. "Wait til I tell my friends I danced with Curt Wild. They will never believe me."

"Ya, won't that be funny," I offer, "they'll be so jealous they'll want to stuff you down a drainpipe."

Curt gives me a withering look.

Thankfully, the dance is brief.

Maria pipes up, as usual.

"Oh, wait, you two. One more. The really romantic one, Angelina."

She turns to her mother.

"No, mama!"

"But honey, that's the one they will want to dance, I'm sure." She turns to me. "It's when you dance really close with your head on Curt's shoulder."

Curt goes to step back. "No, really it's okay. I think I've learned plenty."

I nod and force a smile.

"No, come on, let's see it." Curt shoots a look at me. Equal parts confusion and irritation.

I admit it. In this moment, there's a slightly sadistic side of me that wants to put him through this. To make him pay. For what? For her interest in him. None of this is his fault, in as much as one can't be fairly blamed for one's own charisma and good looks, and in this case, for her being a fan, but it's the jealous queen side of me that's in charge right now, that wants to rub a beautiful built female in his face, daring him to react, to show his allegiance to me … and to reserve the right to take it out on him otherwise.

Maria directs the two hesitant partners to stand closer, until their bodies are making contact. As they move into the slow waltz, both of their faces color. It's the very first time I've ever seen Curt blush. I want to punch him.

The waltz continues, Maria standing aside, hands clasped in front of her lips, beaming as her daughter at first recites directions, and then no longer does, as they clearly aren't needed.

"Shoulder, Angelina."

"No, mama. They don't need to be shown how to do that."

"No, go ahead," I say approvingly, hands balled up into clenched fists. Curt glares at me. His eyes are like murder.

You can then just see Angelina sigh with contentment as her cheek rests on his shoulder, the two figures silently moving about the room.

Maria laughs in delight. "If it were any other man than Curt, I might be worried!"

I force an exaggerated laugh. So she _doesn't_ know he's bi.

Abruptly the dancing stops. Curt pulls away suddenly and immediately sits himself down next to me, as Maria bursts into applause.

"Bravo! BEAUtiful!"

Before he sat, I noticed it. The slight protrusion in his pants. A glance at Angelina shows her fully erect nipples poking through her blouse.

Wonderful. Fantastic. The _both_ of them got hard from it.

Maria and Angelina sit.

"Do you two want to try it now?"

"No, not right now, but we will," I explain, as I snake a hand underneath the table, and over to Curt's lap, pretending to give his leg a pat. "It was really lovely, Angelina. Thank you so much." My fingers crawl imperceptibly upward. Curt jolts slightly, but doesn't otherwise react. "So you cook, you dance, you plan weddings! Anything else?" My fingers grip his erection and give it a good twist. He leans forward and coughs.

"Well I admit, I also teach Spanish in my spare time."

"Really! That's amazing! Curt is trying to _learn_ Spanish! I'm fluent in both, so I've been throwing out a few phrases, but I'm sure he'd love formal lessons."

I grip him tighter. A tiny strangled peep escapes his lips.

Just as the young face is brightening, I wield the hammer.

"Pity, then, that we're leaving the island for good in a few days time. After we get married, of course. I mean, we know it's not a real marriage, legally speaking," I squeeze a final time. He jolts slightly in place and then I let go. "But to _us_ it will be real in every way." I grin at her. "We're especially looking forward to our honeymoon, in fact."

The young face darkens considerably.

Maria can only hear the romance.

"Oh, how sweet! Where will it be, Brian?"

"Right here in this house, actually. Straightaway, when we get home from your place."

Curt clears his throat and pipes in quickly.

"We just figured, there's no place more beautiful, so why leave the area? Plus we have to get back to England in a few days to start recording."

"You're making a record?" The youngun asks Curt hopefully.

"Ya. Brian's gonna produce."

"Oh, I can't wait to hear it."

I yawn loudly.

"Oh honey, we've overstayed our welcome," Maria says.

"No, please, feel free to stay." I say, glancing at Curt. "We aren't doing anything tonite, are we, dear?"

He clears his throat. "Um, well …"

"No, we have to go anyway. Thank you boys so much. I'm so honored to be a part of your plans, I can't tell you. I'm really going to enjoy all the baking and preparation and putting on a nice dress, for a change."

We laugh. She is mostly in shorts and a t shirt from what we've seen.

"Wait til you see Angelina's dress. You won't believe how gorgeous she looks in it."

"Oh, I'm sure!" I offer.

"Anyway, we're off." I stand as they both do. Curt remains seated. "Curt, show our friends to the door," I say out loud, knowing he cannot possibly stand. I can't help my cruelty.

He looks at me, hesitating. "… Umm, er …"

"No, you boys stay where you are. We know the way out. I'll call you tomorrow to let you know how I made out. Goodnight."

"Goodnight! Goodnight Angelina! It was really nice meeting you!" I shout too loudly, too high pitched. "Thanks SO much for the dancing lessons!"

The door shuts and we're immediately on each other.

"What in the fuck was that all about? Huh?"

I plop down next to him and firmly grasp his cock.

"What in the fuck is _this_ all about, boy? HUH? Explain _that_ to me! "

He slaps my hand away and begins shouting.

"Get the fuck OFF me you sick bastard! YOU'RE the one who forced me to dance with her! Are you gonna deny that?" He speaks mockingly. "'Thanks for the dancing lesson, oh, ya, put your head right on Curt's shoulder, stand right up against him, push your tits right into him, no problem!' What exactly were you trying to accomplish ! Setting up another Bianca for me?"

"What about the noodles? She put on a good show, didn't she? Your eyes were big as saucers watching her suck them off! And then you can't offer her another bowl fast enough!"

"Brian she's a fucking kid! I seriously doubt she was thinking about oral sex!"

"No, but YOU were! Admit it! All you could see were those big soft lips lapping away at your cock!"

He sits back, looking very very pissed, and doesn't answer.

"See! I knew it!"

"I'm a sexual being! I think about sex a hundred times a day! And what about you! You didn't think about it? You can't tell me you weren't looking at her the whole fucking time!"

"Okay, I admit, in the beginning I was pretty blown away by her looks! And watching her eat, even! But I didn't get hard over it, did I? I wasn't imagining my cock sliding in and out of her mouth for the last hour!"

He stands quickly.

"Fuck you! There is this sick, perversely jealous side of you that _forced_ us together, that _made_ me dance with her, and didn't back me up even ONCE when I tried not to, over and over, did you? You WANTED it to happen! You WANTED me to get hard, didn't you? If Maria wasn't there, you'd probably have us fucking right this second, just so you could hold it over my head when I came!"

"And you'd be coming like bloody gangbusters about now, wouldn't you?"

"YES! And YOU'D stand there gritting your teeth, just waiting for the moment when you could string me up by my balls! Do NOT change the fucking subject, Brian! This is the heart of the matter here! And the truth! There is a part of you that for some TWISTED fucking reason wants me to CONTINUALLY prove my love to you, to continually trip me up to see if I fail your demented little fucking tests! I am SICK to DEATH of it, do you hear me? I reacted to a beautiful girl- MOST men would, and here's the key: _whether they are in LOVE with someone else or NOT_ ! Can you dig that concept? Can you grasp it? The two have NOTHING to do with each other! I'm human! I'm male! I will ALWAYS have my reactions- it doesn't mean I don't love you! When will you learn? _When will you get it through your mile-thick motherfucking skull ?"_

I'm pissy, panting, and red faced.

"I don't wanna talk about this anymore!"

"Why! ? Because I hit the nail on fucking head! Is that why, you sadistic fucking pussy?"

I stand quickly and bellow at him.

"Fuck you! I can't help it if I'm possessive of you!"

He shoots to his feet.

"NO! Don't you DARE stand behind the bullshit possessive banner! This is WAY fucking beyond that! You're PERVERTED about this! You want to REPEATEDLY drag me through a gutter laced with women to see if I'll react. You forced a naked girl on me in a shower and it nearly made me kill myself, and THEN I end up nearly getting fucking RAPED by her fucking father! Or did you forget? THAT'S the kind of shit you mix me up with ! You think that's HEALTHY? You think those are the actions of someone who LOVES ME?"

"That's not fair! You can't blame me for those things! I didn't know what would happen!"

He's not listening. Not in the slightest. He's bellowing at top volume now, and the veins on his neck are popping.

"I'm just realizing this! It's ALL becoming clear! It's not ME who needs to have my love tested, it's YOU ! I KNOW I love you! I shouldn't have to continuously prove it! And the more you make me do it, the more it eats away at what we have! And what about YOU! I BELIEVE you when you say love me! I've NEVER questioned it! I don't make you prove it over and over! I TRUST YOU- imagine that- but you DON'T trust ME! You DON'T! AND IF YOU _DON'T_, THEN _WHY ON EARTH ARE WE GETTING FUCKING MARRIED _?"

I'm fuming, practically hyperventilating, blisteringly angry to be screamed at like a child, and at the same time mortified that everything he's said is absolutely spot-on true. It's _so_ humiliating – I have _zero_ argument. I want only to lash out at him for my embarrassment, for his simple, precise, pinpoint revelations of me, my jealousy gone amok- as usual, my stupid petty fears and insecurities run rampant, the motherfuckingly childish arsehole that I've been.

So what brilliant thing do I do? Let slip the worst, most damaging phrase I could possibly muster at this moment, that has slithered it's way to the tip of my tongue.

"_It was YOUR fucking IDEA_ !"

For what feels like the 80th time, I want to jump into the air and grab at the words before they reach his ears. Why is it that something spoken out of irrational anger, something that will cause irreparable harm and hurt, cannot simply, instantly be reclaimed?

It's too late; the look on his face is one of extreme hurt and confusion, the look of someone who's just absolutely been blindsided.

His eyes fill. I want to dive to his feet and beg forgiveness. His voice is soft.

"Ya, it was, wasn't it. I'm such a stupid sentimental asshole."

"No you aren't! Don't listen to what I say, Curt- _please_! I'm _extremely_ upset right now. It doesn't matter whose idea it was! I love you! I _want_ to marry you! That's the _truth_!"

He looks at me. His chest is heaving. He speaks carefully.

"This one thing has been nagging at me, Brian, and I swear to god, I'll fucking _kill_ you right here and now if you're not _absolutely_ dead honest with me. I need to know the truth: If men could marry for real, legal and all that, would you still wanna do it? Would you _actually_ divorce Mandy and all that would come with that? You can't be married to us both."

His eyes bore into mine. I hesitate. I can't possibly hide. He knows.

"But you understand the situation there- I've explained it to you! It's tied in with my career!"

He turns away. His voice is tiny, weary.

"Ya, your _career_."

He runs his hands up his face in exasperation and pain.

"I, I gotta get away from here. I need to _think_."

"Curt, wait!" I reach for his hand. He rips it away.

"_Don't _! Brian, right now I don't honestly know if I wanna marry YOU, do you understand ?"

I flinch.

"You once called yourself a businessman, and I was horrified, do you remember?"

"Yes," I sob.

"I told you you weren't- I said you were an artist, but I'm beginning to think maybe I was wrong."

Back to this now. All the things he has over me – integrity, credibility, artistry. In the emotion and frustration and fury of the moment, I boil over again.

"You _were_ wrong!" I seethe. "I have NO integrity- that's what you're trying to say, and it's true ! But you've LOVED living in riches, haven't you, Curt? Two weeks in the Mediterranean living in luxury at my beach house!"

I'm incapable of stopping myself. My brain screams from the mountain tops, NO!, DO _NOT_ SAY IT! but my stupid idiot lips won't stop moving. Idiot Wind, as Dylan called it.

"You think I paid for this place making two bit garage rock that nobody ever hears?"

He dives for the door, rips it open, practically pulling it off it's hinges, and storms through it.

I call after him.

"Go on then! Straight to fucking Maria's!"

I'm staring off in the darkness, unable to find him. In the next split second, his face appears out of the blackness, and I leap back in surprise. He pushes me into the door and moves in to begin rifling through the kitchen, tossing things about, looking for the motorbike keys.

"Maybe I fucking WILL! Maybe I'll head there right now! We'll all sit around and have a NORMAL conversation!"

"Ya, all about integrity! And Angelina and Maria and Bella and David will be _all_ over you! The one with all the indy cred! You can pick which of them you wanna fuck! Or fuck them ALL! Have a big motherfucking integrity-orgy!"

He finds the keys under a pile of newspapers and yanks at them, sending the papers, and a small cup of tea flying.

"You're disgusting!" he shouts and storms out the door. In a single furious kick, the bike starts, and he peels off through the gate leaving burnt tire tracks embedded in the tarmac of my driveway.

I turn towards the room, hugging myself, rocking in slow motion, trembling, sweating. I feel sick, strung out, wasted by the emotional extremes.

We will not recover from this one, I realize. No way. Not possible. Not this time.

I cover my face and scream.

* * *

><p>I mill about the house, ranting to myself.<p>

He was right, YES, he was right! _I admit it _! It _still_ doesn't mean I wanna hear it! Why is he even WITH me? I'm not on his level! He can't expect that from me! I'm a shyster, I have NO talent, NO charisma that hasn't been carefully crafted by handlers and managers. He's got ALL that on his own, just naturally; GIFTED, he is, the fucking bastard. Me, I'm CREATED, put together by the BUSINESS. An entity. A _unit_. I can be torn down in an instant and there'll be nothing remaining.

He – he'll always have what he has.

I plop down on couch. The tears come. Tears of frustration, of rage. At Mandy, at Jerry, at Curt. But mostly at myself. How is it that I'm 25 years old, and I can't get my stupid bloody act together? I ACTUALLY can't keep control of myself? I'm extremely successful! I'm a huge star! Filthy rich, and famous! I have body guards! And here I am groveling around trying to think of a single reason he should come back. Trying to locate a single smidgen of self respect. Where is it? What is WRONG with me?

My brain searches. Spoiled. I was spoiled terribly as a boy. Coddled, never disciplined, really. Never had to work for anything in my life. And yet, instead of appreciating what I had, I schemed and took, wherever I could. Or borrowed, I would tell myself. Styles, ideas, women, men. Whatever I wanted became mine, almost without effort. Even Curt.

The bastard. _Why does he expect these things of me? Why does he expect me to be an adult when I'm a rotten child inside? Doesn't he know this yet? Isn't it plain?_

I HAVE become better since I've known him, I will give myself that bit of credit, but given my behavior overall, and tonite, that isn't saying much.

I'm so, so angry at him. I want him to leave me for good, so I don't have to have this painful conversation with myself every few days. It was so easy before! Lovers who spoiled me, who never asked me to grow up, who gave of themselves without end, who let me have the control, who let me leave them when I wanted. No promises given or expected. No futures discussed.

I glance at the clock. 9:30. Early, and yet I'm absolutely exhausted.

I want to drop off, but my brain won't stop ticking. HOW did this all happen? _Again _? My head spins with the realization that not 3 hours ago, we had been discussing the sex we were going to have on our honeymoon. I was trying to get it out of him. That was as tense as it was. Planning a wedding, what we were going to wear, rings, dancing. Dancing.

The girl thing. Why am I incapable of dealing with this? Of putting it to rest? Why do I become so enraged and incensed at the threat that I feel they pose? Why can I not let it go? Curt with a man? Picture it; imagine it! Does it bother me quite as much? No! Because I'm on par, to a certain degree. Women have so much over me, it's ridiculous. I hate them for it. Thus my continued hissy fits when he even looks at one.

STOP IT! Shut the fuck UP! I'm NOT gonna think about this any more! My head is splitting!

Why though … Why?

Arrrgghhhhhhhhhhh!

I leap to my feet and storm outside. I need air. I'm going for a _long_ fucking walk. I'll walk all night, if I have to. Besides, when he returns, I want him to find the house _empty_, and not me waiting in the corner, balled up with a tear streaked face.

_When_ he returns? _IF_ he returns, you stupid arsehole! He probably won't. Why should he? Who in their right mind wouldn't have figured by now that they'd bloody well had enough?

But … can Curt ever be accused of being in his right mind ?

I head off for a brisk walk in a strange direction, cutting down side streets and walking along large boulevards, not hearing the traffic, the crickets, the waves, thinking, thinking.

He's at Maria's, bitching about me, that's where he is. Spilling his guts to virtual strangers, Maria and David and Angelina surrounding him at the table nodding their heads, sympathetic, patting his hand, all aglow at his beauty, at his sufferings, at his sad life story. All three imagining themselves with him. All three ready to pounce, to offer him the world to stay, to start a new life. David will be especially pained when his sister wins out. Her youth and beauty, her shyness, her awe for him, her young nipples, the wetness between her thighs when he kisses her, when he just _looks_ at her, the womb that will soon be put to good use, to the approval and delight of all those around, his new, fail-safe support system.

Can there be any wonder why I hate women?

I rant on to myself, my feet aching as I travel mile after mile sweating in the warm night air, not caring where in the fuck I am. Finally there is a park bench. A bus stop, I suppose. By now it's probably midnight, but who knows? I've completely lost track. I sit. My eyes close.

At some point I'm awakened by a car driving by. I jump in place. How long was I asleep? What the fuck time is it? I have no idea.

My mind is instantly on me.

_Life without Curt ?_

_Life without Curt._

I'm running it through. He asked me to be honest. He said he'd kill me if I wasn't. He looked me dead in the eye with those blue beams on full force. If I had to choose between my 'career' and hence, money and trappings, or be penniless but have him on my arm, or rather, me on his …

The fog clears. I blink. I blink again.

I didn't … I didn't seriously hesitate, did I?

Oh god. I did. I told him I couldn't do it. I told him I was without a shred of integrity. I mocked his. I did. And pretty much kicked him out the fucking door for wanting it otherwise. For being so bloody naive.

My punishment is what I'm realizing right now, what I'm feeling as I sit here, trembling on this hard wooden bench.

I love him. I feel it so intensely right now, it's, it's … excruciating. _I need him ! __So_ much. It's true! It's killing me, the desperation I feel right now, the violent shredding it's doing of my insides.

Life without Curt; literally unimaginable.

I do not care about anything else, do you understand? 'Can you grasp that?' Fucking bastard cunt that I am! How, really HOW can I be so colossally, irretrievably, maddeningly stupid? There's no explanation. There are no excuses. Not in the entire bloody world.

I have to get back. It's likely too late, of course. It _would_ be what I deserve.

The tears fall like rain as I spin about in a panic. Where the fuck AM I? Which direction? Stupid motherfucking bastard! I jump into the street and leap back at the last second, nearly getting run over by a truck. My heart bangs. I'm pouring sweat. I feel like I'm covered in a slimy film. Walk, just walk!

My brain darts about. Part exhaustion, part delirium, part pandemonium. All I can think, ridiculously enough, is that I wish I had a fucking dog. They can find their way home from a thousand miles out- can't they? It's well documented! And then, at the end of the road, all I can see is Curt, petting the animal, cooing. It suddenly symbolizes our life together, our future. A dog for Curt. A motorbike. A home. A wedding. Bliss.

I break off into a trot. _Don't let him have come home yet, please god, and found the house empty. Please._

I run, fast, like the fool that I am. Absolutely no clue where I'm headed. And there's not a soul about to ask. Bloody fucking island. I hate this place for the turmoil it's caused me.

Sure! It's the ISLAND's fault now! Are you TRULY incapable of learning? "Mile thick skull". Yes! A mile, at least! Grow UP! Be a fucking MAN for once! Your irresponsibilities, your supreme selfishness is why you find yourself running at full bore, in the middle of the night, lost and heading nowhere like an arse, like a bloody lunatic. Loser. Alone. You deserve it!

Shut the fuck UP! Just focus! Where is the moon? I look up. It's barely perceptible; tucked behind a thick layer of clouds. Does it look like it's anywhere near where I need to be? How the fuck should _I_ know! I've never been the slightest bit in touch with NATURE! Unlike Mr Wild, who is one with it. Bastard.

Curt. I love you. _Please_ believe me. I beg of you! Please find it in your heart to give me another chance. Yet again. I know I don't deserve it. But _please_.

I WOULD marry you, if men could! I know that now. Money has been nice. Fame. But I can't literally bear the thought of never seeing you again, do you understand? Are you kidding? It's ripping me in two! Never kissing you? Never being given the opportunity, no, never being honored and APPRECIATIVE of the opportunity that has been handed to me, of the _possibility_, at least, of making you happy? My life has been entirely wasted; I see that now. I feel it. Entirely and utterly without meaning. I don't want to go back to my world in England, for fuck's sake _please_ don't make me go back, if you aren't there with me. Even if we can't marry for real, I will still marry you, in 5 days. I will. I want to, more than anything else in this world.

If only I can find you.

I'm panting, gasping for air. I stop and bend over, desperate to catch my breath. I feel 80. I burst out crying like a fucking baby, snot-nosed, hands covering my face, leaning back against a high rock wall. I'm lost. I'm not kidding. Completely fucking lost. No fucking bloody idea in the world where the hell I am, on a road with no street lights.

Idiot!

From a distance I hear a rumble. Thunder? No, a car, a truck, anyway. I turn towards the wall, not wanting the driver to see a grown man sobbing his stupid fucking guts out.

The noise approaches. I can't see, but it's some sort of old truck, judging from the ungodly rattle it's making, and it's traveling way too bloody fast for this road. Way too fast! It zooms by me at what seems like 120 mph. I turn back and look down the road. It's pretty much gone already.

Then, in the same direction I see red lights. Brake lights. I wipe my face. The vehicle seems to be turning round way up the road, in the middle of the bloody street. Huh? It's pitch black out. I can't see a fucking thing. An old rattletrap truck with a single working headlight and probably a stone-dead drunk driver who is now heading my way. Probably to rob my stupid vulnerable ass. Fabulous! How did I set myself up for this? My eyes dart around. There's nowhere to run. I have a 7 foot sheer stone wall behind me, which goes on for the whole bloody block, and a series of closed storefronts across the road with not even a single stoop to hide in. I couldn't be an easier target.

The truck approaches at 100 mph. I'm squinting in it's direction. What else can I do? I'm not going to run for it, make my terror obvious. I do have _some_ tiny smidgen of dignity left. Just make it brief. I won't put up a fight.

It's veering in my direction now. Is this fucking guy crazy? Maybe he intends to simply run me over? Why would someone DO such a thing?

I'm not gonna just stand here and let him hit me! I start running like mad in the opposite direction, up the sidewalk, away from him. The noise is deafening. Run!

I'm illuminated by the headlight. No trouble tracking and catching up with me, then. The bloody thing screeches to a halt right by the curb, right beside me. The air fills with the smell of burnt rubber. Nutter! Violent, probably.

I stop dead in my tracks, panting and wheezing, terrified, too afraid to look. What's the point? Just rob me, and get it over with! I'm dressed better than most people around, with nicer shoes, so I must have money, right? I do! Bash me in the head, then! It will all have been part of my penance!

I turn and look in the direction of my assailant, squinting into the darkness.

His hair, from what I can make out, is a tangled filthy mess. He looks like he's been rolled in mud. His shoes are in fact, mud-caked.

Shoes? How is it that I can see his shoes? Where is the rest of his truck?

A jolt shoots straight through me. My ears are ringing.

He stares. His eyes are piercing, and bloodshot. Weary. Deadly serious. I stare back. I feel dizzy. For a minute, nothing is said. The blood pounds and pounds in my veins, in fear, in anticipation. His mouth finally opens, or appears to. Is he gonna say something? What on earth is he gonna say?

The voice is low and gruff.

_"What the fuck are you doing?"_

Oh god. The tears leap to my eyes.

"I-I don't know." I sob. "I'm sorry–".

He whips his head dismissively to the side.

"–Shut up and get on the bike."

"Please listen to me Curt, I _love_ you–"

"–Shut the fuck _up_, Brian. It's 2 in the morning. _Get on the motherfucking bike before I take off without you." _

I'm shaking. I wipe my wet face and do as I'm told, daring not to hold him round the waist, nor ask questions such as how on earth he found me, or if he was even looking. Shut the fuck up, indeed. Do not be presumptuous. For all I know, he may simply drop me at the house and then leave for good.

The bike lurches forward and I scramble to grip the arched metal handle directly behind me. It feels so much less secure this way, like I am absolutely going to fall sideways off the bike at any moment. We take off down the road at top speed, screaming through red lights and stop signs. It's truly shocking, this crazy, completely illegal and totally dangerous thing he's doing. After the second and third blown light, I open my mouth to say something, to protest, but quickly decide against it, realizing it's so dark out, we would likely, hopefully, see the other car's headlights in time, were there to be any. Perhaps it's a test. Do I have his balls? Even a fraction of them? Well … no. Then can I at least just sit here and … trust him? Trust that he's knows what he's doing, even if it's patently nuts?

Yes.

In 12 high speed, teeth-gritting minutes, we're home. We dismount, and I follow him up the walk, legs wobbly like rubber.

I enter, turn on the light and plop down at the kitchen table, beside myself with exhaustion and nerves, absolutely dreading what is to come. He reaches and turns off the light and heads out of the room.

"Curt–"

"–We're not fucking talking tonite. Tomorrow. It's too fucking late, and I'm in _no_ _fucking mood."_

He turns off the hallway lamp and puts a foot on the bottom stair. He speaks to me without looking back.

"_Don't you dare fucking sit there in the dark. We're going to bed. Now_."

He's definitely in a mood. I scramble up out of my seat, not wanting in any way to inflame him. I walk up the stairs behind him, in silence.

We undress next to the bed. His shoes are in fact muddy, and his clothes are smeared in what looks like dried dirt.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

He strips off, as do I – each of our clothes either sweat-soaked, filthy, or both, and slides under the covers. At another time this would be a delectable prospect. Tonite we lay as far apart as we can without falling off the mattress.

My brain, thankfully, cuts out on me, and in perhaps 12 seconds, I'm gone. Sleep comes fitfully however, and is full of anxious dreams, of running in total darkness, of being lost, of fights and irreparably damaging arguments. I awaken three separate times to find him staring out the window, smoking his head off. I watch, daring not to speak, hoping against hope that the morning will somehow, magically, bring peace, healing, and some possible way out of this.

* * *

><p>In the morning I awaken, feeling entirely unrested and unsettled. The bed is empty. I rise, throw on undies and a robe, and nervously and quietly descend the stairs, barefoot. My stomach does flip flops. I'm so tense I could vomit.<p>

He is there, visible through the doorway, sitting at the kitchen table in his robe and pajama bottoms, cup of coffee before him, lit cigarette between his fingers, hand resting on the edge of the ashtray. I watch, at length, undetected.

He looks a horribly wasted mess; hair plastered in every direction, face drawn and stubbly, eyes red and moist, staring blankly at the baseboard on the near wall. With the heel of the hand that holds the cig, he brushes the wetness from his eyes. He sniffles, he absently puffs, he takes an occasional sip from the cup, the whole time never breaking his gaze from the wall. It's absolutely a dagger in my heart to see him so lost, so haunted.

I despise the part of me that at the same time, finds him incredibly alluring and heartbreakingly beautiful in this state, that of the small, vulnerable, shattered boy. The urge to run to him and hold him- the ever present rescue fantasy, is nearly overwhelming.

Finally, carefully, I approach. More than anything I don't want to go into that room, I don't want it confirmed, what his face is telling me, but I see no point in prolonging things.

His gaze shifts. He seems startled, clearly unaware I'd been hovering. I pull out a chair and sit opposite him. We stare at each other for long moments. His eyes are bloodshot; overwhelming in their sadness, in their longing. That I have been the cause of this face … it's all I can do to hold myself together.

He swallows. The cigarette is burnt down to the tip, almost. He's holding it over the ashtray, no longer aware it's between his fingers.

He speaks. His voice is small and scratchy.

"I think we should break up."

* * *

><p><em>After such a lengthy, action and emotion-packed chapter, the author sincerely requests your feedback. Please. <em>


	34. Like A Huge Glowing Ball

It doesn't matter that I knew it was coming, it's still absolutely decimating to hear.

We stare at each other in shock, in anguish, in sorrow, in disbelief that this is what we have come to.

When he finally breaks the horrid silence, his voice is shaky, and unbearably sad.

"I guess I still love you, Brian, but … there's something really wrong. There's gotta be." His eyes drop. "It shouldn't be this hard."

My voice barely registers.

"I know."

We stare at the table, not speaking for several minutes. My insides are dark, empty, and icy cold. It's sinking in, what we're acknowledging; the hopelessness of the situation. The room is filled with an unbearable sense of loss. I feel a crushing weight in my chest and find I can't breathe beyond the shallowest point.

"The whole time after I left last night," he finally, wearily offers, "I just … wore myself out … to the point of exhaustion … pouring over everything, thinking the whole thing through, every fucking detail about _every_thing, and after we came back here ... I barely slept ... but I _still_ wasn't able to figure it out."

I stare into the tabletop, wishing I was anywhere but here, having this awful conversation.

"Maybe," he adds, "we're just … maybe we're just not suited to each other, or something. That's the best I could come up with, but it's so fucking lame."

I swallow around the lump in my throat. He continues.

"Honestly, I was pretty fucking mad at you, and … I wanted to blame you, I wanted you to be at fault, but … I think I have to take the blame in many ways."

My eyes flick upwards. 'Take the blame' - God, I want to die. We really are talking about it as fact - that we, 'us' as a couple ... is no longer. I feel totally numb. I watch his lips move, only half hearing him.

"My problem is … it's always been, that I'm ruled by my heart. It gets me into trouble. Being fucked up like I am- it's a really bad combination."

He looks at me. The blue of his eyes has faded.

"I realize I leapt onto the marriage thing at least in part because it … it fucking represents … _stability_ and like, security, to me ... the two things I crave more than anything in the universe. That need in me is just … unquenchable. It's embarrassing. It _gnaws_ at me, nonstop. Not something I can help."

The cig has burned out on it's own. He drops it. He shifts in his seat.

"With you, Brian, when things are going right, I have felt this sense of relaxation and peace that is pretty much overwhelming. It's _so_ powerful – this sense that I _belong_, _finally_ I belong; that I'm secure, I'm safe. You have to understand how incredible that is for me, just to feel that way even for five minutes. That I can relax and actually be myself- that you know my whole story _and it doesn't matter__."_ He shakes his head slowly and looks off. "You can't imagine what it feels like. I literally think I don't need anything else. Food, sex, money; _nothing_."

He stubs at the ashes with the cigarette butt.

"I'm not saying I'm sorry I asked you to marry me- I'm not. It seems a natural enough thing for two people in love. It felt very genuine to me. I just want to be completely honest about my possible … unconscious motivations, or whatever."

He smiles bitterly.

"On the one hand I say I don't need much, on the other hand, I'm _so_ fucking needy it's pathetic. Embarrassing."

He shuts his eyes and waves his hand in the air in front of his face.

"Sorry. I'm rambling. I'm exhausted."

"It's okay."

He looks up again.

"The other thing I wanted to say is that I had no right to make you feel bad for wanting to maintain your career."

No. He's not gonna do this.

"Curt–"

"–Please, I just wanna say this, Brian. The thing about that is, I'm used to making exactly the music I want, because no one's listening to begin with. I don't make any money from it, and I have nothing, materially speaking, so the lack of money doesn't threaten anything for me, being, y'know, essentially penniless and rootless. For you, you have a wife and a manager and staff and cars and 3 or 4 mortgages–"

I put my hand up.

"–Okay, enough. Stop letting me off the bloody hook." I force in a deep breath. The situation isn't salvageable, but I won't have him thinking it's his bloody fault.

"You and I both did hours of thinking last night. For me it was like 4 straight hours ... I went down really deep, thinking, pouring over everything, and I realized something significant, and painful … That there's stuff I should have owned up to and dealt with a long, long time ago, Curt. I, unfortunately, tend to be more about the _head_, and not the heart, except when it comes to cattiness, as you've seen.

What I realized and acknowledged for maybe the first time is that I have this unruly, idiotic child living inside of me, obviously, that runs rampant at times. You're the first person in my life who has made me see that, do you realize ? Everyone else has let me get away with the most obnoxious, inexcusable behavior, when I should have been rounded up and shot. No one else has forced me to see myself for what I am, but you."

I have this sudden need for contact with him and I reach for his hand. I'm so relieved when he doesn't pull back.

"What I did last night, my jealousy freakout, _everything_ I said and did was _totally_ unwarranted and inexcusable, and I'm so fucking embarrassed to sit here right now and look you in the eye. I'm completely ashamed. You did _nothing_ wrong. Nothing. _I_ let myself spiral out of control.

You were completely right in what you said. Sometimes you can't not react to someone.

You're a grown man for fuck's sake. And I absolutely forced the issue, in order to, in my hissy fit, in my twisted logic, sort of make you pay for having become aroused, as if it was your fault." I look off. "I'm just mortified to admit this to you right now." I shut my eyes. I feel hot. "Fucking with you like that, the disrespect. It makes me _ill_ to think of it." I open them. "And you were right, too, when you called me a bloody businessman, because _it's how I've behaved for the whole of my career,_ even _before_ I had handlers and mortgages. Last night I thought it all through and …"

His face is calm. I don't know that this is having any effect on him at all. Not that's it's going to, but ...

I lick my lips. I'm suddenly incredibly nervous.

"I could only think to beg for your forgiveness, which seems so pathetic, but I knew I'd crossed a huge, inexcusable line, yet again and … it would likely cost me your love, which, y'know, is … absolutely unbearable to me, Curt, but … understandable." I look off. I speak through my teeth. "You only realize the most important things, you only recognize what a fuckup you are when it's too late, don't you ?"

I take a deep breath. My nerves are all but frayed. What am I doing ? Why am I bothering to blather on ? It's hopeless – we each know this.

I want to run from this table. From this house. A part of me – the person I've always been - wants to lash out and curse his name – as if any of this is his fault – curse the day we ever met ... and yet it's the rest of me, this new person trying to forge his way through, who is doing the talking.

"The question that you put to me, about choosing my career and all the trappings and money, or you, which is essentially what you asked, I just want you to know that last night the answer was absolutely right in front of me like a huge glowing ball …"

I turn his palm upward and take it between both hands. I look into his face.

"What it all boils down to, when you strip away all the bullshit, all the business … Curt, the only thing that truly means anything to me in this world, I _swear_ to you, is sitting right here in this room, at this table."

He blinks. His face remains stoic.

My heart, the heart of this new guy inside me, is banging so hard I swear it's bruising my chest cavity. I'm hoping he can feel it in my pulse.

"If we have to … break up, I'll understand, …"

_What are you doing ? Why are you going on ? What is the point, here ?_

My eyes fill; it can't be helped. I take a breath to try to calm myself. It doesn't work.

"… but please know … I _need_ you to know this ... that I _do_ love you, honestly, with all my heart, even if I'm … so often not worthy of yours."

His face, expressionless, is a dagger to my heart. My words tumble painfully forth.

"I can't bear to hear you beat yourself up for having a heart that rules you, or for being needy. Those aren't failings, Curt; they are what you are, they make you, _you_, and I admire them _so_ much; you have no idea. I'm desperately jealous of your cravings and especially your spontaneity and your passion."

He remains calm, unmoved.

My head is hurting.

_What is it that you're trying to accomplish, here ?_

God. I'm losing him.

For real.

I want to die.

I look down at his hand. I want to remember the look of it, memorize the feel of it in mine.

My voice is shaking. I look up.

"The only thing you were wrong about was when you said I don't trust you. I _do_, completely. I'm putting all of my faith and trust in you, in fact. I'm trusting, or hoping, that you'll believe that my feelings are sincere … I'm praying that that matters."

The blankness of his face tells me it doesn't.

This is excruciating. I can't meet his gaze anymore. My eyes drop. This is what I'll remember, I realize, what I'll take with me from this horrid conversation: Curt's rough, worn, dirty, but to me, exquisitely beautiful bare hand. I examine it. It _is_ beautiful; strong, tanned from all his time on the beach, with fine blond hairs and long graceful fingers, tips calloused from a decade of guitar playing. Suddenly I covet it, this hand, I don't want to give it back, this last part of Curt I'll be allowed to hold as if it were mine.

I weave my fingers into his and in the process, catch sight of his third, ringless finger.

Something instantly clicks off in my head.

Yes.

_Yes_.

I lean forward and bring it to my lips, these fingers. My voice cracks.

It may have been his idea first, but I'm stealing it.

"_Please Curt, please marry me_."

There is a look of shock, and an instant softening of his face, like he's come to life. Clearly, he's taken aback. We both are. He blinks several times and begins breathing.

It all comes spilling. I can't get the words out fast enough- they come out in a tumbling jumbled rush. I'm squeezing his hand the whole time.

"Don't let's break up. _Please_ Curt, I'm _begging_ you! I can't _bear_ the thought of living my life without you. _Please_ don't condemn me to it. Please. _Marry me_. I'm dead serious. Please say yes! It's unimaginable, the thought of returning home without you. Maybe we're not perfectly suited to each other; I don't know. What I _do_ know is that I never have and never will love anyone more than I do you. Ever! You _have_ to believe me ! You _own_ _my heart _! I want you to be the only one in my life- no distractions. I'm divorcing Mandy soon as we get back."

"Brian !" he shouts, "You can't!"

"Of course I can. I will, first thing, I promise you- I swear on my father's grave I will, _if you'll marry me."_

His eyes water, and stare into mine, unblinking. When he speaks, his voice is a strangled, shaky whisper.

"Brian, that's so … it's so … it's just that … how would we … how would we make it work ? We're such a fucking mess half the time."

"And the other half is like heaven, to me. It truly is- bliss. I'm so happy I can't speak, when things are going well. We'll just have to work on the messy half. We _can't_ throw everything away because of it. We _can't_."

His eyes are emotional, and fragile.

I kiss his hand.

"Marry me, Curt."

He blinks. His voice trembles.

"Shit. No one's ever … no one's ever asked me. I don't know what to … I'm really … I don't know how to … I don't know what the fuck to say."

I turn and kiss the back of his hand and squeeze it.

"Say yes."

He laughs softly.

"I'm all … I'm a mess. This is so embarrassing. I'm all a flutter." He sniffles. "You completely caught me off guard."

"Good. Defenses down. You do love me?"

"Yes. That hasn't changed, Brian. I just … I'm totally floored right now. I'm so blown away …"

It's such an achingly sweet sight, the stunning creature rendered speechless, scrambling and flustered.

"Mind you, Curt, I know I'm not worthy of you. I'm praying you'll continue not to notice."

His face breaks into a smile and a small laugh, then erupts into a wide, radiant grin, eyes alight and sparkling, like the sun bursting through the bleakest sky. It might very well might be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Please, Curt. I'll keep myself in check – I _promise_. I just want to be with you; take care of you. Truly, it's the only thing I want in this world."

He raises his free hand to his eyes and wipes them. He then extends it out to me. I take them both in mine.

It feels incredibly good.

It feels like yes.

His voice is soft. His grin is shy.

"Well … how can I, y'know, refuse ?"

My heart is racing and racing. I'm picturing a hamster on a wheel.

"Not good enough. You have to say it. I'm dying here, Curt. Say you'll marry me. Say yes."

He pulls my hands close

and holds them

against his lips

so that I feel the breath

when it comes.

"_Yes_."

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: <em>

Hi folks, and Happy New Year to you all.

I hate to do this, but I'm going to need to get some feedback - some regular feedback - in order to continue this story. There are four or five of you reading this thing, and I only ever seem to hear from one of you, if that. Please bear in mind that these stories do not materialize out of thin air. Somebody works incredibly hard on them, putting everything she has into it - heart and soul and sweat - and when people appreciate it so little that they can't be bothered to provide even minimal feedback, it honestly makes me not want to bother. It's great to have any readers at all, I understand that, but it truly sucks to be literally ignored when you politely request feedback, as happened with the last chapter. Writers put hours and hours into their stories, and readers happily gobble it up but can't be bothered to spend 1 minute on a review? I _like_ to think this is a halfway decent story worthy of one minute of your time. Maybe you disagree. It's in your hands - all four or five of you - let me know if you care to continue reading this story, or not. Thanks.


	35. Once Again and For Good

A sob bursts out of me. My heart ping-pongs inside my chest. I leap up to kneel onto the table and throw my arms round his back. I'm so elated, I'm squealing. Giddy. Light as a feather. And practically shouting at him.

"Oh god! Oh god! Thank you! Thank you! I love you! Oh god, I love you so much! I was so terrified to lose you! Petrified!"

He squeezes me so tight I'm momentarily unable to breathe.

"I love you too, my baby. I was afraid too."

I kiss the side of his neck.

"I'm so sorry. No more insufferable freakouts, I promise! You don't deserve it. But you have to hold me to it, Curt. Punch me if I ever get out of line. I'm serious. Keep me accountable."

"Yes," he laughs into my ear. "Your new accountant."

"Curt Wild, CPA."

We both burst out. Just to do so, after the terrible strain and tension of the last 12 hours …

We pull back and kiss for the first time in what feels like decades. It is slow and soft and tender, incredibly romantic and sweet; the tears are rolling down my cheeks. It's like we're kissing for the very first time, like an injection of vital nutrients, a glass of water in the desert. I'm floating; I want it to go on for hours. I can think of nothing else but the bliss that his lips are bringing me, the bliss that it is to hold him, to know that he's mine, once again, and for good.

Quickly though, perhaps inevitably, it turns serious, this kiss, going round that very wet, deep, dangerous corner where we are pawing at each other, hungrily, passionately, impatiently, swirling our tongues and bruising each other's lips. The stubble scratches and scratches at my face, it feels like sandpaper, but I don't care. It's Curt's. I want to eat it.

In an instant he stands, kicks the chair back behind him with a screech, folds me backward onto the table top, sending coffee cup and ashtray flying, and climbs over.

It's all so sudden, I'm half laughing, in disbelief.

"Curt! No! It won't hold us!"

"I don't care."

"But it'll break!"

"So what."

So what, indeed. We kiss wildly, deeper and faster, during which our cocks (accidently?) brush together, with only the thin cotton material separating them. There can be no question where this is headed.

"We shouldn't."

"Shut up."

Holy mother. Carefully, he's lowering his body to lay directly on top of mine, and then, with a minimum of movement, so as not to strain or tax the table legs further, he begins this insanely sexy gentle rocking motion with his hips, this impossibly lewd, slow but firm rubbing of his cock, right straight into mine, all while he kisses me until I'm gasping, and in between, just stares and stares into my eyes with a piercing, withering intensity.

My cock is raging. I feel woozy. It strikes me that dry humping Curt is about 5000 times hotter than some of the best fucks I've ever had, or, what I _used_ to consider a 'best fuck'- long ago, now. Bottom line: I can't take it another bloody minute. I squirm and rock my hips violently, rapidly upward to meet him. The table squeaks and groans accordingly.

"Brian! The table!"

"Shut up!"

The hip motion intensifies, and we lock into a smooth, tight rhythm, mashing our cocks into one another, moaning out loud into the kitchen. I stretch my hands downward and slide them under the rear of his pj bottoms, why hadn't I thought of this til now?, and knead at the shape and curve of those exquisitely beautiful strong buttocks. The ones that have been denied me. This seems to drives him particularly crazy, and he breaks out on his own into a genuine deep hip thrust, which quickly increases in speed, causing the table to creak and sway frighteningly.

Oh Curt, oh fuck, _stop_ ! The table will break! We'll be injured!

Oh god, oh fuck, Curt, _don't stop_ ! How did you know it was right? How did you know it was exactly what I needed? That firm cylinder, smooth as iron now, that gorgeous ballooned out mushroom head that makes my mouth water, I swear I can even feel those beautiful popping veins, all grinding mercilessly into my poor, defenseless, thinly-shrouded member.

He whispers slowly to me now. It's that insanely sultry gravel. Right into my hair. One sentence.

"_I'm gonna fuck you … I'm gonna fuck you every single day … for the rest of my life_."

A surge rockets through me. My hands fly to his scalp, digging and grabbing at the tangled filthy mess that is his hair, assaulting him with my mouth, sucking the air straight from his body.

The temperature shifts. The tingle rises in my thighs, in my loins, up my back and, god bless the lad, he will not stop, creaking, straining table or no. I'm stuttering out the breaths. A split second before my eyes begin their backward roll, I catch sight of his face directly above mine. It is red, and dripping. Eyes squeezed hard, mouth tense, neck tilting, I realize he's coming, too.

We call out hoarsely, within seconds of each other, which in itself is indescribably wonderful, my only regret being my orgasm preventing me from fully witnessing his.

Regret? How did such a word actually enter my brain just now? Impossible! I've done it! I actually have. I've won him back, against every odd. And, to boot we have just christened the second coming of our engagement. I know; we should have waited for the wedding night, but right now, holding his beautiful, limp, sweaty, gasping form in my arms, I couldn't possibly be sorry.

Five seconds later we are jarred out of our reverie by a loud ringing. The bloody phone. He pants into my neck.

"Should I get it?"

"No! Don't you dare move!"

He raises his head quickly.

"Fuck, but what if it's Maria calling with some news about the wedding? Who else has your number down here?"

"Nobody."

He quickly raises to his knees between mine, landing just a smidgen too hard, and I hear it. Splintering. The sound of the straw breaking the camel's back.

In an instant, he leaps off and grabs my hands to pull me up as the table cracks, straight down the middle, in two, and crashes to the floor at our feet.

His eyes are huge. He throws his hand over his mouth and then reaches shakily for the ringing wall phone.

"Hello?"

I turn myself towards the table, not believing my eyes. He pulls me back against his chest as we survey the wreckage. I can easily hear every word out of Maria's mouth.

"Oh my gosh, Curt, you sound out of breath! Did you run to the phone?"

I stifle a giggle.

"Um, … no. I was just, I was … exercising."

"Oh my dear boy, you certainly look fit as a fiddle to me. Don't push yourself too hard now, you're getting married in a few days."

We smile huge. It's stupendously wonderful to hear. He pulls me closer, wrapping an arm across my chest.

"Okay, I won't."

"Good. Curt, the reason I'm calling is that I'm sitting here with our pastor, Father Pedro. His schedule is extremely tight but he'd very much like to talk to you boys."

"Oh, ya, definitely. We'd love to talk with him. Name your time."

"Well, I'm at his house right now, which I didn't even realize is right around the corner from Brian's. I know this is short notice, but do you mind if we pop over right now?"

"Um …"

I turn quickly to face him, shaking my head 'no'.

"Well, we're–"

"Are you in the middle of something? It's just that he's usually given several weeks notice of a wedding, and here we are springing it on him at the last second, and with his schedule, it's nearly impossible for him to find any free time. He happens to have a few minutes now."

Not hearing her, as I've stepped away to face him, I'm swinging my head and waving my arms violently back and forth.

"Oh, I see. Okay, no, that's fine. Come on over. We're still in our robes, if that's okay."

I'm hopping up and down in front of him, mouthing words to him silently, pointing and pointing at the table.

"Not a problem. Father Pedro is a very relaxed, informal sort of man. Okay, we'll see you in a minute. Bye."

"Bye." He hooks the phone onto the receiver.

"Curt!"

"Brian, she said he has an extremely tight schedule! He has practically no other time to meet with us before the wedding!"

"Well, but …!"

I survey the kitchen. I drop to a crouch to pick up the remnants of Curt's coffee cup and ashtray.

"How soon are they going to be here?"

"Any second. He lives right around the corner."

"Jesus! Curt, what are we gonna do about this _table_!"

He yanks his robe closed.

"I'll meet them out in the driveway and direct them to the front door."

"Wipe down your face! Comb your hair first!" Flustered, he lunges one way, then the other, and stops dead in between.

"Aww, Brian, what does it matter if they see the table, anyway?" I stand, and dump the broken pieces into the trash. "They don't know we broke it fucking."

We look at each other. A tickle begins in my belly and rises to my throat. We laugh, hard and long, until our eyes are watering. Oh god, it's true; we did.

Five seconds later the doorbell rings. Naturally, it's the back, kitchen door.

"Shit!" We pull our robes together and tie them tightly in place. It wouldn't do for them to see wet stains on the front of our trousers. I'm silently praying we don't smell of sex, but it's too late anyway. I slap on a grin and open the door.

"Hello!"

Maria enters, and kisses both cheeks. "Hello, Brian dear!"

She turns to Curt and kisses his as well, placing a hand on the side of his neck as she does.

"Oh my. Curt, it's lovely, the stubble, it really is, but ouch!"

He laughs.

"Sorry. We're both a bit of a mess."

"Yes," she laughs good naturedly, as she runs a hand up into his hair in an attempt to straighten it. As always, she can't keep her bloody hands off him.

The man with her is middle aged, short, with thinning gray hair and glasses. A tad on the portly side, with a soft, welcoming face. He's dressed in the standard black, with white collar, of course.

"Boys, I'd like you to meet our pastor, Father Pedro. Father, this is our friends Brian and Curt. Brian is English, and Curt is American." She grins. "From Michigan."

The pastor laughs.

"Yes Maria, you have told me all about it." He turns to nod and shake our hands. "I am sorry for the short notice. I'm the only pastor on the island, and so my schedule is always quite cramped."

"No, that's fine. We're so grateful that you're meeting with us at all," I offer.

"Father Pedro is a wonderful man, boys. He's been close to our family for 25 years, since before David was born." She turns her head and calls out the door through the screen. "David, are you coming in, honey?" She turns to me, smiling. "I'm afraid he's awed by your beach front, Brian."

Curt and I look at each other and freeze. The last encounter with David was after Miguel attacked Curt, when David ran from the room. How awkward might this be?

Maria, seemingly sensing our tension, whispers to us. "Don't worry," She grins. "David has a new boyfriend."

In he walks, nodding and smiling, looking from Curt to me, and there is no awkwardness about it at all. Phew.

"Hello, nice to see you both again," … and then his eyes drop to the disaster immediately behind us, only to shift back again, repeatedly, between the two of us.

Fuck, it's so obvious. He knows! I'd completely forgotten that he'd walked in on us once before in this kitchen- with table askew. My face flushes. Mortifying! What must he be thinking right this second that we've gotten up to in order to _break_ the bloody thing in two! A sold piece of wood, after all ? What must his opinion be about our level of perversion, that we keep doing it in the _kitchen_, and not only in the kitchen, but over the bloody kitchen _table_, in broad daylight ? And here is his pastor surveying it all!

Maria turns.

"Oh my." She looks at me. "Brian, your beautiful table! We just ate at it last night! Was there an accident?"

Curt and I swap glances. Curt stammers.

"Um, we were … I was … leaning on it, er _standing _on it, this morning, in order to …" his eyes rise upward, "to, um, … swat a fly, on the _ceiling_, and it broke."

You can almost see him exhale with relief.

"Oh my gosh, you could have been seriously hurt !"

He shrugs. "I'm fine. I have good reflexes; I jumped off at the last second."

I pipe in, sounding too chipper.

"Why don't we all step into the living room, then! I'll make tea?"


	36. The Real Test

"Well gentleman, I understand you wish to be married."

Curt and I reach out and hold hands. It feels so official, and so real. I smile.

"Yes, very much so."

"In one of our churches."

"Yes."

"Of course, you both understand that marriage between two parties of the same sex is not legal, nor recognized by any church or government or any authorities, neither here in Spain, nor anywhere in the world?"

Details, details.

"Yes, we know."

"I want you gentleman to know that in my personal opinion, that is wrong. I believe God blesses loving, committed unions, whether heterosexual or homosexual. But you must understand that in my presiding over your wedding, if you would like me to do so, my involvement would be strictly of a personal nature, because you are friends of Maria's, and not in any official church capacity. I have no legal or church authority to bless your union."

"We understand."

"Good." He looks at us both. "I understand from Maria that you would be having rings and vows and would like a formal, traditional ceremony as much as possible, is that correct?"

Curt answers.

"Yes, definitely."

"Which is part of the reason you wish to marry inside of a church?"

"Yes."

"But you are not members of the church?"

"No."

"Please understand, you do not need to be, it's just that I'd like to know something about your backgrounds if I'm to be presiding over your wedding. These are just general questions. Are you members of any church, or did either of you grow up in the church?"

I jump in.

"I grew up Catholic and attended Catholic schools my whole childhood, up to age 16, but I don't practice it." To say the least.

"I went when I was really small, but I haven't been since. My family wasn't really religious."

"Well, considering the attitude of the church towards gays, I can understand your both being hesitant to participate in the institution as adults. But let me just say that you would both be most welcome in my church."

I don't doubt it.

Curt squeezes my hand.

"Thank you so much, father. You're very kind."

"Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?"

"No, go right ahead, please."

"How long have you two known each other?"

We look at each other. I answer.

"Um, about 4 months."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Not long."

Curt responds.

"No, but we're very much in love. It's the real thing. Without question."

My heart soars. I squeeze his hand back.

"Why do you wish to marry? I'm just playing devil's advocate here, so to speak, as I would with any young couple wishing to marry, please understand."

We look at each other. Curt speaks.

"Um, we just feel really committed to each other, in a serious way, and we want to honor and celebrate that, I guess."

The pastor nods and smiles.

"Excellent answer, young man."

We all laugh.

"No, I'm serious. I can't tell you the answers I have received to that question over the years. A question you would think a couple would have pondered beforehand. In an instant, you know these people shouldn't marry."

More laughter.

"Why do you wish to marry now, may I ask?"

I field this one.

"We have really limited time in Ibiza. We're booked in a recording studio in London two days later."

"So why not marry in London?"

My mind pictures us trying to tie the knot there. The press, let alone Mandy, would be merciless, hounding us at every turn, round the bloody clock.

"Well, it's much more private here. And we've really come to love Ibiza." I look at Curt. "I think we'll be coming back here a lot. It will sort of be like our part time home."

His face colors a bit. He grins shyly. It's the first time he's hearing this. My heart swells with happiness at having brought him such unexpected, welcome news.

"Brian, that's wonderful! We will expect you boys to join us for dinner once a week, at least!", Maria bellows.

We laugh. "Thanks, Maria. We will," Curt responds. In my mind, of course, I have other ideas; I'm seeing us sneaking down here unannounced for weeks of non-stop lovemaking.

"So you are both musicians?", the father asks.

I tear my face away from Curt's.

"Er, yes. Curt's an artist, really- a purist." I clasp his hand with both of mine, and look him in the eye again. "He's amazing. I think he's a genius, actually."

"Ooh, Brian! Just to look at the two of you!", Maria cries. She turns to the pastor. "Father, they both sing beautifully. They played for us at the last dinner. Curt even worked Bella's name into the song lyric." She turns to him, smiling. "She has more than a little crush on you, I'm afraid."

More laughter.

Shit, I'm thinking, she's not the only one.

David pipes in, grinning. "Mama, I don't think Bella will be pleased that you have revealed her secret."

"Well, we'll have to keep it to ourselves then."

She reaches out and pats Curt's back.

"We just want you to know that we pretty much think of you boys as part of our extended family."

Curt is clearly moved. He grins shyly.

"Thank you so much Maria. That's incredibly sweet. We consider ourselves extremely lucky to have met you and your family. We feel incredibly blessed."

"Us too! I can't wait for this wedding! It's so romantic! Just seeing you boys sitting next to each other right now, holding hands- it makes me wanna swoon !"

Laughter.

The pastor sits up straighter.

"Now gentlemen, I wonder if you would be interested at all in a more formal pre-marital interview, as what is normally given to prospective couples who wish to marry in the church?"

Curt and I exchange glances.

"Interview?" Curt asks. I had heard of this, but never partook in it as Mandy and I were married by a justice of the peace.

"Yes. It is a way to gage a couple's compatibility, basically. If you are not a member of the church, this may seem odd to you, and intrusive, but it is merely a tool to help you decide if marriage is right for you, and truly what you want. Considering the unofficial capacity of your marriage, from the church's perspective, it is not required, but I did want to offer you the same things that are offered to heterosexual couples, as much as is possible."

Curt and I look at each other.

"I sort of like the idea of doing it straight all the way, so to speak. What do you think?" Curt asks me.

"If you wish to discuss this amongst yourselves, we can leave," the pastor pipes in.

I address him.

"No, that won't be necessary. I agree with Curt. We'll do it, if that's what the straight couples do. I have to ask, though, is there a problem with the fact that neither of us are members of the church, or of any church?"

"Well, Brian, that may be the only advantage that being gay will give you here, because if you were marrying a woman, the two of you would be required to join, but again, since the marriage and wedding are of an unofficial nature, that won't be necessary. This is all 'under the table', as I believe they say in America."

"Okay."

The pastor pulls out a leather bound folder and places it on the coffee table before him, and begins unzipping it.

"At this point, I will ask David and Maria to step outside during the interview."

Maria stands. "David honey, let's go for a walk on the beach." He stands, and they leave via the kitchen door.

The father takes out a notebook and clipboard, and places it in his lap. He removes his glasses and slips on a pair of reading ones.

I glance at Curt. He appears nervous. I'm feeling it a bit, as well.

"Now gentleman, please do not take offense at any of the questions, especially those of a more personal nature. They are the same questions put to all couples."

"Okay."

"Alright, first off, Brian, you are a part time resident of Ibiza, is that correct?"

"Yes. This is my home."

"You own it?"

"Yes."

"Will you be settling here?"

"I'm afraid not." I look at Curt. "Not right now, anyway. Our jobs require that we return to England."

He scribbles a few notes into the notebook, then asks the next question without raising his eyes.

"Have the two of you ever lived together?"

"Yes, these 2 weeks, we have."

"How has that gone? Have there been fights?"

We look at each other. And how, I want to say.

"Yes."

"What is the manner of your fighting, ie is there physical fighting, yelling, silent treatment, do one or both parties leave the house, etc."

I glance at Curt again.

"Um, a bit of everything, actually."

"Maybe not silent treatment though. We don't do that, do we?"

"No, I don't think so."

"What have you fought about?"

I stop and look at him.

"I'm sorry, father, that seems really … no offense, but why do you need to know that?"

"I understand your discomfort, Brian. Let me explain that in my counseling career, I have seen over and over that how a couple fight and what they fight about tends to determine the likely success or failure of their marriage. It is critical, actually." He looks back at his notebook.

"If you would like me to move on, I will."

I look at Curt. He nods.

"No, that's okay. Um … we've fought about … um, Curt, what would you say?" I'm flustered and my brain is a bit foggy as a result.

He looks at the pastor.

"I guess stuff like, miscommunications and shit." He immediately puts his hand to his mouth. "Oh, sorry."

The pastor smiles.

"That's quite alright. Go on, please."

"Um, misinterpretations. Misunderstandings."

"Can you be more specific?"

Now Curt's on the hot seat. He looks at me. My time to nod.

"Um, well …"

I step in.

"I tend to be jealous of people around Curt. He's so charismatic, people flock to him, and I get jealous and I sometimes get carried away and see things that aren't there."

The pastor continues shooting off questions while keeping his face in his notebook. It's a bit unnerving.

"Are women attracted to Curt, or just men?"

This one sets me back. Does he have ESP? Or maybe David told him we're both bi? But I somehow doubt that.

"Both."

"Curt, are you bisexual?" He asks, again, without looking up.

"Um, yes. We both are."

"Have you mostly been with men, or women?"

He fidgets.

"Um, well, women I'd say."

"Have there been almost as many women as men, or has there been a much greater percentage of women, than men?"

"Wow," Curt laughs. "Um, I'd say maybe 60/40 women to men."

"Any particular reason?"

He shrugs. "No."

"The only reason I ask is, in my experience counseling bisexual couples, the percentages are usually much more disparate, that's all. People tend to be more like 80/10 or even 90/10; either they are almost completely straight or almost completely gay."

"Oh."

"What about you, Brian?"

"For me it's mostly been men."

He scribbles.

"Okay, back to the fights. How long do they tend to last?"

Curt answers.

"I'd say no more than an afternoon, depending on the time of day the fight started, sometimes longer."

"Have you had fights that have been bad enough that you have discussed breaking up?"

We look at each other. It's eerie, really.

"Yes."

"How often?"

The images flash through my head. Curt packing his suitcase in my bedroom. Our discussion this morning.

"Um, twice."

"Twice in how long a time period?"

This is getting intensely uncomfortable. I resist the urge to lie.

"Two weeks." I slump back in my seat, wishing I could be anywhere but here. I'm sure we are failing whatever test this is, by bloody miles. Will he prevent us from marrying?

"And how are the fights resolved, generally? Why haven't you broken up?"

I pipe in.

"We each tend to do a bit of soul searching, and then we talk it out and realize how much we love each other, and that resolves it."

There! I want to shout. See? We're not so bad!

I'm wanting him to smile and nod, just a smidgen of reassurance would be nice, but the bloody man just keeps scribbling, stone-faced.

He takes a breath, casual as can be, like he's done this five hundred times. He probably has.

"Are either of you committed to any others at the present time, in any way, officially, or otherwise?"

Great! We glance at each other.

"Um, well, yes. I'm afraid I'm uh … married, actually."

He looks at me. He seems surprised. "You are married at present?"

"Yes."

"To a woman?"

"Yes, but," I feel myself fumbling. "I have intentions of filing for divorce as soon as we get back."

"How long have you been married?"

"Five years."

"Do you have children?"

"No."

"How long have you been thinking of divorce?"

"Um, well our marriage has been pretty much non-existent for a long time now."

"Does your wife live with you?"

"No. She keeps a separate flat." Phew. Off the hook there.

"For how long has this been the arrangement?"

"8 or 9 months."

"Is she aware that you intend to file divorce papers?"

"No."

"Were you in love with her when you married?"

God, this is excruciating. How about firing off a few questions at Curt?

"Yes, but at the same time, we wouldn't have married had we not believed that she was pregnant at the time. It turned out she wasn't."

"Do you believe that your wife would have the same view? That you wouldn't have married were it not for the pregnancy scare?"

"Yes, I do. Because we literally married the same afternoon she told me. I wasn't planning to marry her at all. We never discussed it before that day."

Phew again, I think to myself. He can't exactly argue with me there.

"I see."

"And you are no longer in love with her?"

"Correct."

"When is the last time you had relations with her?"

I'm stunned. I blink and look at him.

"Um, a long time ago. Several months."

"Was it before she moved out, or after?"

"Um, after." These aren't exactly things I wanted Curt to hear.

"So you have slept with your wife within the last 8 or 9 months?"

"Yes."

He continues his incessant looking down and scribbling.

"Was this before, or after you met Curt?"

"Before, long before."

"How often in the last 8 or 9 months?"

I'm fidgeting. I'm sorry we're doing this after all. He looks up at last.

"I'm sorry, Brian. These are the exact sort of questions we ask all couples. It's not fun for me, I promise you. As a pastor and also a marital counselor, I deal with these issues all the time. I want to assure you there is a point to this, even if it doesn't seem like it right now. Please just answer as honestly as you can, but if you can't answer, I'll move onto the next question."

"No, I'm okay. Um, we had sex maybe twice in the last 9 months."

He resumes his scribbling.

"I need to ask, if you were living separately and thinking of divorce, how was it that you slept together at all?"

I'm nearly breaking out into a sweat now. I don't dare look at Curt.

"Um … she … we, it was a … party." I resist using the real word: orgy. "She had been drinking- she was drunk." I resist the word 'stoned'- off her ass- we both were. "And we found ourselves alone together. It just happened. She instigated it."

"Even though she was drunk?"

"She initiated it _because_ she was drunk. That's her way."

"Is there any chance your wife might be pregnant by you?"

"Not as far as I know. It's doubtful. She has no interest in children. She's on the pill."

"Was your marriage a faithful one until you met Curt?"

Oh man.

"No."

"Were you both unfaithful?"

Fuck, I want to answer, are you kidding? We had regular orgies in my living room!

"Yes."

"Was it a one time thing, or was there much unfaithfulness?"

I clear my throat. My face colors.

"Um, it wasn't a one-time thing."

"Meaning multiple extra marital affairs?"

"Yes."

"The both of you?"

"Yes."

"Were they affairs or more of a single night's event?"

My face flushes further. How glad I am that he's buried in his notebook.

"Single night events." Nicer way of saying 'one night stand', I suppose.

"Is your wife aware of your relationship with Curt?"

Fucken A. Is this entire thing going to be about Mandy?

"She is aware of it."

"Is she aware you intend to marry Curt?"

"No."

"What does she think about your relationship with Curt?"

Curt pipes in.

"She doesn't like me very much."

"Why is that?"

Curt and I look at each other. I answer.

"She knows we're in love."

"Is she in love with you still, Brian?"

"No."

"Then why would it matter to her that you were now in love with Curt?"

I take a breath.

"It's complicated. I've been very successful in my career, and have become famous, and Mandy has, as well, but only by virtue of being the wife of a famous man and putting herself in the spotlight. I believe she sees Curt as a threat to her little bit of fame."

"Is your wife likely to try to interfere in your relationship with Curt?"

"Well, yes."

"In what way?"

I sigh. "I don't know. She's fairly vindictive. She will badmouth him, probably." She already has, I think to myself.

"What impact is that likely to have?"

"None. She thinks she has power, but she doesn't, really."

"Okay, next question. What will the divorce do to your financial situation?" He looks up at me. "Brian, I ask this because by far the number one cause of marital discourse is money problems."

I look down. I take a breath and soften it as much as I can.

"My wife's brother is a lawyer, but I have lawyers as well, good ones, so it's hard to predict."

"Is your wife likely to try to take much of your estate?"

"Well, she can try, but … we'll see."

He looks up at me.

"Do you expect that she will?"

Bastard won't let me get away with anything.

"Yes."

He turns and looks at Curt.

"What about yourself? How is your financial situation?"

He gulps.

"Um, I don't have much money." Or any, actually.

"Are you employed?"

"Um, I'm … I'm scheduled to start my record the day after we get back."

"Do you expect to make money off of your record?"

"Um, well, Brian's producing, and he's got a big name, so I think it's likely."

"Do you own a home of your own?"

"No."

"Are you married or promised to anyone else?"

"No."

"Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Have you ever lived with anyone?"

"Yes. Once."

"You were in love with the person?"

"Yes."

"When was this?"

"A long time ago."

"How old were you?"

"17."

"How long did it last?"

"Six months."

"Were you faithful to each other?"

"Yes."

"But the two of you broke up?"

"Er, yes."

"Why?"

Curt shifts uncomfortably and glances at me. I take his hand.

"He um, he died."

"I see. I'm sorry."

"S'okay."

He continues his scribbling.

"What do you and Brian have in common?"

We look at each other.

"Well, we love music, of course."

"The same kind of music?"

"Um, not exactly. Rock music, but different types of rock."

"Do you each have your own bands?"

"Yes."

"Why is that? Why not play in the same band together?"

Fuck, he leaves no stone unturned.

Curt fidgets.

"My band's a bit … loud, and raw, I guess you could say."

"Mine is more poppy." Ha! I've got him on this one: "But, just the same, even if our musical tastes were completely similar, I don't think it's ever a good idea for a couple to work together, do you?"

He ignores the question and instead, floors me with one of his own.

"You are producing Curt's record, though?"

Bastard!

"Yes, but …" I stammer. "That should only take a few weeks."

"And then what?"

"Then we go on tour," Curt offers.

"Together?"

"Um, my band is opening for his band."

"So you'll be on the road together traveling around?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Eight months."

"Do you consider your band your job? Your work?"

"I consider it my art, actually," Curt offers. "Not to sound too frilly or anything."

The pastor smiles.

"You consider yourself an artist?"

"Yes."

"Brian, do you feel the same way about your music?"

I lie. We've scored few enough points with the man as it is. "Yes."

"What other things do you two have in common?"

We look at each other. There's an awkward pause.

The pastor pipes in.

"Life outlook? Values? Family backgrounds or upbringings?"

Curt scrambles.

"We, we just … Brian and I just click in real ways, I don't know how else to put it. In the ways that matter. We care deeply about each other and we know we want to be together."

The pastor nods, and scribbles.

Curt continues.

"Neither of us have ever been in love like this before."

It's an incredibly sweet moment. I feel a surge of warmth in my belly.

The pastor continues, oblivious.

"Educational backgrounds?"

Curt answers.

"Um, I dropped out of school when I was 17."

"Do you have a high school diploma or an equivalency degree?"

"No."

"Any college, technical training, apprenticeships or special skills that could earn you money?"

I stifle the thought that Curt earned money hooking. That, I suppose, is a special skill.

"Aside from music, no."

"What jobs have you held in your life?"

"Um I once worked at a car wash."

"Brian? Education?"

"I finished high school, that's it. No other training."

"Jobs?"

"I've never really had to work. My family has money."

"Do you have any sort of inheritance coming to you?"

"No."

"None at all? You're not in anyone's will?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"A bit more about background. Were either your parents ever divorced?"

"No."

"No."

"Oh well, _that's_ good."

Hooray! We get one tiny gold star in a notebook full of large red X's. Please, don't ask Curt about his family.

"Would you consider that you had a happy family life growing up?"

Christ!

"Yes. Mine was ideal," Curt responds quickly.

I shoot him a look.

"Very happy family life. Very close family. I still see my brother all the time."

The pastor nods.

"Oh, good, good."

"I really admire him."

"Splendid. What does he do?"

"He ah, he's a counselor. He counsels troubled youth."

I stare straight ahead. Okay, totally lying to a pastor here. Surely this is bad.

"Um, mine was happy," I offer, "My father and I were very close, but then he died when I was 10."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

He reviews some of his writings a moment.

"Do either of you want children?"

Great. Fantastic. How do we get around this one?

"Yes," Curt offers.

I squirm.

"I'm open to the idea, even though I never considered it before I met Curt. But I don't see how we could, to be honest."

"Curt, do you consider the fact that you want children but would not be able to have them with Brian to be a potential problem?"

"Um, well, Brian and I have discussed this actually. I really think even if I was with a woman, that it would be unlikely that we'd have kids, because … I'm not stable enough financially."

"But you could be some day. Or your wife could work."

"Well, ya, but Brian and I could also, I mean, there are women who do surrogate mothering, I've heard, and millions of unwed teenage girls who give up their babies."

"But you would not be able to legally adopt."

He squirms. "Well … no. At any rate, it's not a burning issue right now for me. I believe that things will take care of themselves to some degree. The bottom line is, I love Brian too much to allow some future thing that might never come to pass ruin our relationship, or put an end to it. Besides, other than maybe one girl, the women I've been with, the women I attract have not been of the best quality, I guess you could say."

"Oh? Why?"

He fidgets. "Um, how do I put this delicately? Because of my job … I mean, I'm in a rock band. The women I meet tend to be a bit … trashy. We call them groupies. They aren't terribly discriminating. Definitely not wife material."

"I see. Okay, thank you for being honest. I appreciate that."

He looks up from his notebook.

"Just two more sets of questions. I'll make this as brief as possible."

He looks back down and readies his pen.

"Do either of you drink?"

"Not really. Just the occasional glass of wine, with dinner."

"Have either of you ever taken drugs?"

We glance at each other.

"No."

"No."

"Never? Not even once? I have to say, it seems odd, given your occupations."

Curt steps in.

"Well, to be perfectly honest …"

I shoot him a look. What on earth is he going to say? I was a full time heroin addict for six years? I'm fresh off methadone in fact?

"… I did smoke marijuana for a short while, but I didn't really care for it. It messed with my ability to play guitar, so I stopped, plus it's bad for the lungs, and I need 'em to sing."

"Do either of you smoke?"

"Um, okay, ya got me there. I do." He grins. "Like a chimney."

We, all three, laugh. It's the first time the tension's been broken.

"That's okay, Curt. I confess, so do I!"

More laughter.

"Wow, I didn't know priests …"

"Yes, we do!"

Yet more laughter. It feels good.

"Alright, last set of questions. Sorry about these. I have no idea why they put these last. It seems especially awkward to me, but we are supposed to ask them in order."

"It's okay." I'm feeling so much more relaxed after having laughed. I squeeze Curt's hand. "Go ahead."

"I'm afraid they will seem especially intrusive, but this topic is also a big predictor of marital success. Perhaps the second only to money." He clears his throat and buries his face in the notebook. "How often do you have sex?"

We look at each other, a bit stunned.

"Um …," I stammer.

His nose remains firmly in the notebook. "Just … if you just want to tell me how many times a week or a month or whatever, that's fine."

"Well, I'd say, it's more like … several times a week."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I'm supposed to write down a number."

"Okay, well, I'd say maybe–"

Curt pipes in. "To be honest, we do it about every day. Often more than once."

The pastor laughs shyly. "Oh my, okay."

I can't help myself, I have to ask. "Is that good, or bad?"

He laughs again. "No, that's good! Very good!" He scribbles away. "Even for a couple of only four months- that's … extraordinary!"

We all laugh again.

I want to say it. I want to tell him. I'm proud of it.

"Well actually," I add, "at the moment we're actually …" I look at Curt, who finishes my thought.

"We're saving ourselves for the wedding night."

The pastor is clearly surprised.

"Oh. I see." He laughs softly. "Not something I hear much, these days, I must say."

Curt grins. "We like tradition."

I smile. We squeeze hands.

"So you are both healthy and fit, I take it? That's one question I had left out."

"Yes."

His face is intensely buried in the notebook.

"And when you do have relations, do each of you find your lovemaking satisfying?"

We glance at eachother quickly.

"Yes, definitely."

"Yes, very much so."

"So I take it that sex is not one of the things you argue or fight about? That is another common marital problem."

"No," I offer. "Sex is the thing that helps _resolve_ our arguments, in fact." I look at Curt lovingly, longingly. "Or at least, it's how we make up." He returns the loving, longing look. If the bloody pastor weren't here, I'd lean over and french him a good one.

"Excellent, excellent."

He shuts his notebook finally, takes a breath, and looks at us.

"Okay, gentleman, that is it. I'm truly sorry for any pain it caused you to go through that." He stands. "I will call in our friends from outside. They are probably sunburnt by now."

"Um, but … can you tell us how we did?"

"Well, I'd have to review my notes."

"What are you first impressions, though?"

"Did we completely flunk out?" Curt asks.

He sighs. "It's really designed to be something to help the couple decide. I don't make the decision. Only you two can decide."

"But, in your experience with interviewing prospective couples and then … probably counseling them later, you must see some patterns," I inquire.

"Yes, of course. The same ones, over and over, I'm afraid."

"Can you possibly tell us how we compare? What chance we have of lasting or being happy?"

"Well, there are no crystal balls."

"But, you must have _some_ idea," I plead.

He sits and looks at us. He takes a breath and exhales.

"Well, frankly, you appear to have little in common, and you have known each other only a very short time, during which you have almost broken up twice. Obviously, these are not good signs.

It sounds, Brian, like your wife is likely to take much of your money in the divorce, but then, you can still make music, presumably, and continue making your living that way, and being successful at it. I see no reason why that shouldn't continue. But it also sounds like she is likely to try to obstruct your relationship with Curt. A bitter, spurned, vindictive ex-spouse is not usually a good thing, as I'm sure you can imagine. Of course, and, I should not say this, but, I suppose you could remain married to her, since she already knows about Curt. That way, you keep your money, and she keeps her fame, and you can continue living separate lives in separate flats, as you are at present.

The child thing does have me worried, because this is certainly a well known, common source of marital friction, but at the same time, it seems to me that a sympathetic female friend could possibly help, there. Still, that can be rather sticky- a child having not two, but 3 parents, let alone the legal questions. It would depend on how sympathetic your friend was. The best situation I suppose would be a girl who becomes pregnant without intending to, who has little interest in rearing the child. That way she would be more likely to allow the two of you to parent the child, and yet the child would still have his or her mother around. But as you said, perhaps it's too early to worry about these things. Time may bring better answers."

Christ. I feel completely depressed and deflated. I look over at Curt, who is looking off, clearly feeling the same way. To boot I can tell that all the baby talk and the sorry, half-baked solutions to same are hitting him especially hard. He speaks absently.

"Ya, I guess."

The pastor reaches out a hand to him.

"Curt, please remember that I am an outsider to the situation here. I am not inside your heart, nor Brian's- that is extremely important to keep in mind. In my professional capacity, I am required to make judgments about a couple's potential success, but I, and we, the church, have certainly been proven wrong a number of times over the years."

Curt looks down. He doesn't respond. Oh god, why did we do the bloody test? Why?

"I can see that clouds of doubt have entered your mind. Let me just say something to you, Curt, if I may, outside of my professional capacity."

Curt looks up at him.

"Okay."

"In _my_ heart, and I'm speaking quite honestly here, I can see that your love for each other is very real, very genuine, and that it means the entire world to you both- it couldn't be more obvious." He looks at me, then back at Curt. "Gentlemen, the very fact that you wish to engage in a marriage ceremony, particularly a traditional one, in a church, with a priest and multiple witnesses, and then live as a married couple, despite the fact that neither the world, the law, the community where you will live, nor the very church where you will be married will permit or recognize or respect or even consider such a thing, despite the fact that the world would be quite hostile to and scoff at and try in fact to stop it, is testimony to the strength and depth of your bond. Surely you must see that."

Curt looks at me and re-grips my hand.

"We do."

"Well then, you must understand that _that_ is the real test, if there is to be any test- _that_ is a real predictor of marital success, in my opinion, and I've been a counselor for 17 years and have counseled hundreds of couples. You and Brian have already had so much more to overcome than any straight couple, and yet your love has persevered and your desire to be married hasn't wavered."

Curt is softening, somewhat. He looks off.

"Ya, true."

"And I will also mention something here, something I wouldn't normally ever do, but I know that Maria and Manuel would approve."

We wait, looking at him.

"As a young couple, _they_ were given the test by my predecessor …" He smiles at us. "And … they failed it miserably."

Curt's and my mouth drop open simultaneously.

The pastor nods and laughs softly.

"Hard to believe, yes, but completely true. And yet they are as happy and close as a couple can be."

My heart sings, but … next to me I can feel Curt stiffen again.

"They've had a bunch of kids, though."

My heart plummets.

The pastor touches Curt's hand.

"Curt, it's quite sad to say, but the reality is, children do not make a marriage happy or not happy. In fact most of the couples I counsel, people who come to me who are quite miserable in their relationships and have been for years, 98% of them have children, so please bear that in mind. But … I can see that this is an issue for you and that you would like children. Let me just say that there are solutions, even if it seems right now like they aren't possible or realistic."

Curt looks at him hopefully.

"Well, what do you mean?"

He pauses a moment before answering.

"It's not something I'm really supposed to discuss, but as you both seem trustworthy, and are friends of Maria's, I will just say that I have counseled gay couples before, about adoption, and have in fact, through my channels and contacts, been able to help some of them with it."

Curt brightens. We both do.

"You _have_?"

"Yes. I cannot go into details, except to say that it involves couples like you, only female, who birth the child and allow another couple like themselves- gay, to adopt, unofficially, of course."

Curt smiles.

"Wow, that's … heavy."

"Of course, there are no guarantees, but I just wanted you to know, sometimes in life, god finds a way, even if man tries to put a stop to him."

We laugh. Shit, he is amazing.

He stands. We stand with him.

"Okay, I think that is all I have time for, gentleman." He touches his hand to his head and shuts his eyes momentarily. "Oh, no, wait. Of course. I nearly forgot. Which church do you have in mind? I'm going to check availability right after this."

"St Tomas'. It's a small old church on the other side of the island," Curt answers.

He looks at us oddly.

"Well I can tell you gentleman, there won't be any availability problems. It's basically an inactive building. Why there? It's a bit worn, from what I recall. Sort of in the middle of nowhere. Rarely used. The island has much more beautiful churches than St Tomas'. More grand. More festive."

We look at each other.

"Um, well, that's sort of why we fell in love with it; it's small and intimate. It's off the beaten path. Traditional."

"It has a wonderful feeling to it, inside. The light from the windows, the old pews, everything. It has a beautiful spirit to it," I offer.

He smiles warmly at us.

"You are both very interesting young men. I have not met many your age who care a great deal for such things, or who are so obviously interested in commitment to another. How old are you?"

"Twenty five, both of us."

"You make me feel quite old! This is exactly how long I've been practicing in Ibiza!"

Laughter.

I feel my stomach unclench. Then it hits me. The most important question of all.

"Oh, father! I almost forgot to ask. Do you know when we will know for sure if we can actually go ahead and do this? In the church, I mean? We're afraid someone will try to put a stop to it."

He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Brian, let your mind rest. There will be no one stopping it."

I hesitate. "But … don't you have to ask permission to use that church? And won't they ask why?"

He smiles warmly.

"I see that I have not fully explained my position. I am actually the bishop of this entire parish. I am the one who would grant any such permission, and believe me, for you boys, it is granted."

Curt and I look at each other and at the _bishop_, beaming. We shake hands and hug him, offering our sincerest, most heartfelt thanks.

We head towards the door and call to Maria and David, who both hug and congratulate us. They then walk out and Maria stops to turn and shout back the names of the baker and jeweler in town.

"Sorry, I should have written them down!"

"It's okay, I won't forget," I respond.

We wave to our guests as they leave.

We shut the door. We turn and wrap our arms around each other. I lay my head plain as day across his shoulder. We stand there like statues for the longest time.

"I love you so much."

"I love you too, my baby."

I wriggle with delight in his arms.

"Still?" he laughs.

"Yes!"

He kisses the side of my head.

"We're getting married, Brian. We really fucking are."

I squeeze him tighter and sigh. "There's a part of me that can't quite believe it."

"I know. It's so fucked up."

It comes right out of my mouth.

"We might have a baby, too."

Despite how I've previously felt, I'm astonished to find a genuine feeling of joy inside of me, at the notion.

Curt exhales a huge shy smile into my neck.

"Well … we'll see … "

"It's possible, though."

We move together in a slow sway. He speaks softly.

"I … I don't wanna get too excited about it." He laughs. "I got enough friggin excitement in my life right now."

We laugh.

I kiss his shoulder.

"I wouldn't say no, my angel, just so you know. I wouldn't dream of denying you that, and honestly …, I'm even beginning to genuinely like the idea."

We sway further. He tucks his face sideways, sweetly, shyly, burying it further into my neck, and holds it there a minute before responding.

"Stop it. I'm gonna burst wide open from happiness."

We laugh. I kiss his cheek. It's absolutely gorgeous, this moment. My soul is singing from high atop a mountain. I'm convinced I've never been happier, or felt closer to him.

I pull my head back.

"We'll need to practice the dance."

"I know."

I smile. "You know- the one for our wedding."

He laughs shyly.

"Yes, that one."

A huge yawn then suddenly bursts out him.

"Oh my god. Sorry. Not now, though. Too much excitement. I'm absolutely wasted, Brian."

He takes my hand and slowly leads me toward the kitchen.

"Where are we going?"

"To bed."

I laugh. "Curt, we can't."

"Oh, I know. I'm completely fried anyway. I just …, the last day has been so fucking stressful, in good and bad ways; I think it's just all catching up with me. I need to lie down and be quiet with you for a while; just hold hands and stare at the ceiling."

I lean forward and kiss him softly.

"You're ridiculously romantic, do you know that? Go and take a nice long nap. I'll stay down here and do some wedding business. I'm gonna hit the bakery. We have very little time."

He yawns again and rubs his eye.

"I know. Sorry. I'm not much help."

"It's okay." I run my hand up into his hair. I kiss him quickly. "Go to bed."

"I will. Come up with me, though. Just for a minute."

* * *

><p>In the bedroom he stands by, jamming his fist into his eye to rub it as I pull the curtains closed.<p>

"You'll go blind doing that."

"It's raw; it itches."

"Let me put some drops in it, then."

He reaches down and fidgets unsuccessfully with the belt of his robe. He's made the knot too tight.

I take it and work it until it loosens, and then slip it from his shoulders, laying it on the nearby chair. He pushes down on the waistband. He sits on the edge of the bed and I pull the material past his ankles.

He speaks absently, in a worn whisper.

"I'm too tired right now to even _want_ sex."

He slips under the sheets and I cover him. I sit on the edge and take his hand. I lean over for a quick kiss. I brush my hand along his temple.

"Oh Curt, your eye's completely red. I'll get my drops."

I find it in the cabinet and return. I sit by him and lean over his face, holding the dropper close.

"Look away. You're looking right at the bottle."

"Oh."

He complies.

"Haven't you ever done this before?"

"No."

I squeeze until the solution drips. I dab at the water that's leaked out around his eye.

"Blink."

He complies.

"Better?"

"Ya."

"I'll do the other one, too. It'll feel good."

I do so, he blinks, I dab, he blinks again.

"Okay?"

"Mm hmm."

It's _so_ fucking _weird_, the feelings being elicited in me; this sort of doting rush that I'm getting, this surge of endorphins, from … mothering him! It's embarrassing. I feel a bit guilty- am I going overboard? And if so is it because I'm enjoying it so bloody much or because he needs it? Not that he seems to mind. It strikes me that no one's probably ever really fussed over him before, in a non-sexual manner. Here we are in my bedroom with curtains drawn. He's lying naked and prone, with only a thin sheet separating us. I should be creaming my jeans, and yet all I wanna do is baby him.

I whisper.

"Go to sleep."

I stand and turn to leave. I'm almost at the door when he calls to me.

I turn.

"Lay here for a minute with me. Just til I fall asleep."

Really, how can one think of sex when the sweet, needy boy in him is so evident? I return and slip in next to him. We clasp hands under the sheet. For a minute we say nothing. I turn my head quietly to see if he's drifted off. He hasn't. I turn back.

"Curt?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, it's in a soft whisper.

"Ya?

"How did you find me last night? I mean, was it a fluke or were you actually looking?"

"Of course I was looking. I rode around for an hour. Went up and down every street."

I ponder this, feeling terribly guilty.

"Why did you run the other way?", he asks.

"I was scared. I didn't know it was you."

We stare up at the ceiling.

"Why were your shoes all muddy?"

"I went to that place we hiked in case you were there."

"You didn't go up the mountain?"

"Only part way."

"But it was pitch black out."

"I brought a flashlight. I still tripped over a root, though."

Which answers my next question; why his clothes were dirty.

"You didn't hurt yourself?"

"Just a bruise."

I want to strangle myself. He fell, alone, in the darkness, he could have broken his fucking leg, and why? Because I'm a selfish motherfucking arsehole.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond. I look over. He's out.

I lay there another minute before slowly and carefully sliding from the bed. I turn. In the small streams of light allowed by the curtains, I can't help but look.

His hair is splayed and twisted about, mashed against the clean white pillowcase. His lips are parted. From between them comes the loveliest, most hypnotic rhythmic breathing, like a song. Even his eye sockets, I find arrestingly beautiful.

Enough.

You have shit to do; get moving!

I turn, undress, carefully open the drawers, change clothes, and leave.


	37. I'm A Huge Star, After All

In the town I find the bakery. In the window is an overly dressed up 5 tier wedding cake complete with silky ribbons and a wild bouquet cascading from the top. Inside there are a few others on display, including a chocolate fondue cake, and something appearing to be a Spanish fruit cake. Ugh.

When the customer being waited on leaves, I approach the counter. Maria had told us to mention her name, and I do.

"We are friends of Maria's. Are you Sonja by any chance?"

The employee nods vigorously.

"Si senor, si."

I address her in Spanish.

"You appear to have a wonderful selection. My problem is time. How quickly can you make a 3 tier wedding cake?"

"When do you need it, senor?"

"Three days."

Sonja's smile freezes.

"This is not possible, I'm afraid."

I slump.

"The cakes are hand made and ordered many weeks in advance, senor. They take many hours to prepare."

"Even a simpler one? What is the minimum time frame for any of the simpler cakes?"

"Minimum I would say is a week."

I slump further. How can I discreetly ask her if this is the only wedding cake bakery in town, especially where they are friends of Maria's?

"Do you ever have last minute cancellations?"

Sonja laughs. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it appears to be our only hope.

"No, we haven't had a cancellation that I can remember. Senor, there is another option, possibly. Most people of course want a perfect, flawless wedding cake, so if there is ever a cake that comes out less than perfect, it is redone, but the original cake is kept on hand as a second just in case. Most do not sell, however, and they are demolished."

She's suddenly giving me a private look.

"Okay."

"Since you are friends of our dear friend Maria, I can tell you that we may have some seconds coming up, perhaps."

"Um, you're saying …"

"It is possible the baker may … make an _error_ with a cake and we may in that case have a seconds cake for your wedding, if that would be at all acceptable to you."

Wow! Maria carries some clout for sure!

"Yes! Yes, that would be very acceptable, were that to happen." I resist the urge to wink at her.

"Please senor, come in back. We can show you examples of some possible, um, seconds."

She leads me to a room decked out with a fluffy couch and coffee table with an oversized catalog brimming with huge color photos of wedding cakes of every possible style and taste. She leaves me to peruse the book. I flip and flip the pages and can scarcely believe my eyes. There are a dizzying variety including square cakes, octagonal, oval, round, cakes with elaborate ribbons and exotic flowers, frosted birds, miniature bonsai trees, lace, chocolate butterflies, chocolate berries, chocolate fruit, confetti, something appearing to be velvet, seashells, etc etc. It's simply impossible to choose- I'll need Curt's input. We've never discussed what style cake we'd want.

I rise and leave the room.

"Thank you so much for your kindness. The cakes all look amazing, but I must bring my fiance in to help me decide."

"Of course, senor. I look forward to meeting him."

Jesus, she knows. It's a bit unnerving in a way. I'd have preferred that this be kept completely private, but I trust that Maria trusts Sonja, or she wouldn't have told her.

I shake her hand. "Gracias, Sonja, gracias. We'll be back later today."

* * *

><p>Next it's to the jeweler, which is 2 blocks east. It's the usual gorgeous day, and I stroll, or rather, float down the street, feeling light as a feather, in no particular hurry at all. I'm in love, my beautiful boy is home asleep in our bed, resting his lovely weary head, and everything's gorgeous with the world.<p>

Alberto is not in when I call, so I deal with a man named Carlos, from whom I immediately get unfriendly vibes. Bloody hell, does he know, even before I've opened my mouth, that I'm a faggot?

Great, now I have to go and ask, confirming his apparent suspicions.

"Sir, I'm wondering if you can help me. I'm in need of two men's wedding rings, just plain gold bands, and I need them quite quickly."

His eyes harden.

"Two _men's_ wedding bands, senor?"

"Yes, that's correct." I immediately want to backpedal: "Ha ha! I'm pulling your leg, of course!"

The man hesitates, seeming to want an explanation. I have to stop myself from giving him one. I don't owe him one! This annoys me.

"Is there a problem? Perhaps my Spanish isn't as good as I'd thought. I had said I was in need of two plain gold wedding bands, men's bands. Or is this not a jeweler?"

The man hops to it, finally, when another man appearing to be a manager hovers nearby. Turns out it's Alberto after all, who addresses me.

"Senor, are you Brian, Maria's friend, by chance?"

"Yes. Alberto?"

"Hello, I am happy to meet you."

"Thank you. Likewise. I was just asking this gentleman about wedding bands."

"Yes, of course. Please come this way."

I walk over to one end of the store and view several different style bands under the glass, trying on two of them, neither of which come close to fitting- too big. They might fit Curt, I don't know.

"Once we choose a style and size, how soon could they be available?"

"Very soon, senor. A week."

"A week?" My heart plummets. "Oh, but, we need them in 3 days."

The man shakes his head sadly.

"That is not possible, senor. I will have to double check with my supplier, but normally there is a week advance notice, minimum."

"Do you have seconds by any chance?" It's worth a try.

"Seconds? Sorry senor, I do not follow."

"Never mind." I sigh, dejected. I have no idea what to do now. This is the island's only jeweler.

"Thank you anyway. I'll get back to you."

I leave the place, dragging my feet. The sky seems dim. I start back in the direction of the house, head down, running it over and over in my mind, trying to figure out a way we can get our rings, wondering why Maria's name didn't work it's magic this time. Well, she can't force them to accommodate our schedule, I realize. They're a business after all. Still, Curt will be extremely disappointed. Is there anything more important to a wedding than wedding bands?

Wedding band. What music are we going to have? We'll both sing. We have to practice the dance. Don't we have to practice the actual ceremony too? How the bloody hell should I know? I've never had a proper wedding nor do I know anyone who has. Suits! We MUST have crisp white suits! They have to be perfect. BOY will Curt look amazing all in white. We'll probably run into the same problems with tailors, though- not enough bloody time. Can Maria sew? Or maybe Angelina? Ugh, I don't want to think about that girl … I certainly don't want her measuring his chest! We'll have to make sure his hair's clean, at least; it rarely is for pity's sake. Florist! We need to positively bank that gorgeous little church with flowers. I want there to be so many flowers there isn't enough room for our guests. Curt wanted the Michigan state flower- surely an easy find here in Spain, no? What was it again? Chrysanthemum? Lilac? Can't bloody remember. Maria will know. We'll need to clean that church a bit too, dust and vacuum, anyway. I wanted it smelling of flowers.

I look up, and I'm at the house. Bloody hell. Didn't raise my head from the sidewalk once and here I am. No need for a dog after all.

A DOG! A DOG FOR CURT ! I'll buy him a new puppy as a wedding present! HOORAY! I'm a genius! That means a visit to the pound. And a little doggie crate for the flight home. He'll need his shots before we leave. ArrghhhHH. There simply isn't enough time!

I enter through the kitchen door and am surprised to find him up. He's leaning against the counter, in his robe, smoking, having showered at least, and looking fresh as a daisy.

My smile's a mile wide. I approach.

"How are you my angel?"

He exhales the smoke into the room, his expression dead serious.

"Not good."

My hand flies to his forehead.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"No. Worse. The wedding's off."

"_What are you talking about_ ?"

"I just hung up from Father Pedro, who said some fucking bishop in Valencia just dropped dead like 15 minutes ago, and they're all flying around in a panic, and he's been called to this emergency conference or something, and he won't be back until Thursday. Thursday! Meaning he can't fucking officiate over the fucking wedding, Brian, and there's no one else who can."

I stare at him in a daze. He looks positively stricken. What a couple of days we've had. Wedding, near breakup, wedding, no wedding.

I slump back onto a chair. We look blankly at the broken kitchen table before us. I'm running it all over in my head. Is there _nothing_ we can do? Can we not have someone stand in and just read from the bloody bible or something? Does it _have _to be a priest?

"Curt, what if … I mean, can't someone else do the reading and marry us? Can't maybe Manuel stand in for the bishop?"

"I don't want that, Brian. It would be totally fake, like we were playing a fucking game. This isn't fucking pretend, to me. Except for the one tiny detail that it's not legal, which isn't our fault, it's a real fucking wedding to me."

"I know, I know, but what can we do, then?"

"Do you think he could maybe recommend somebody in Spain? Maybe we could fly across the water and do it there."

"But we'll run into the same problem- finding some place that will allow such a thing at all, let alone on 3 days notice, and what about Maria's family- they'd all have to fly, too. Plus, I really _really _want the church we picked."

I reach for his cig and take a drag. I don't know why- I don't smoke, but I'm extremely stressed at the moment.

"That's the problem- the time frame. It's too soon to prepare for all this. I couldn't even get us rings. It's a week a minimum, they said."

"What ?"

His mouth is frozen open.

"Curt, we've just been incredibly naive and a bit presumptuous in thinking we can make the whole island hop to it just cuz we say so." I look back at the table. "I managed to scrounge for a cake, at least- but only thanks to Maria's good name."

We ponder the sight of the table together.

"Why don't we just do it after we get back?"

I shake my head. "It'd be an absolute bloody nightmare. Can you imagine letting on to any church anywhere in that entire country that _you_ and _I_ are getting married? To _each other_? It'll be a feeding frenzy for the paparazzi, like even I've never seen before. Not to mention that Mandy will hear of it and go ballistic. We'll be chased everywhere we go, and whatever remnants of a wedding we could manage would be ruined. That's _if _we could find a sympathetic priest."

"Shouldn't be a problem. England's full of faggots, isn't it?"

I snicker. "Hilarious. Very funny."

I'm picturing flying home unmarried. Not, what, 5 days ago the idea hadn't been in my mind. Now I'm so besotted with it, I'm absolutely devastated at the idea that it might not happen. Instead, what we have immediately ahead of us is the re-entry into my plastic, hyper-pressurized life, the 'sick, fucked up make believe world', as Curt once called it. We barely touch down, we barely have time to breathe and we're in the studio, Jerry standing over my shoulder the whole time, Shannon acting, as always, as his little spy, Mandy interfering wherever and whenever she can, then when the bloody thing's finally cut and mixed, going straight out on the road for a grueling 8 month tour. The marriage thing, inevitably, left far, far behind.

Would Curt drift from me, without this anchor holding us together ?

I don't want to think about that.

Even if he didn't … The beginning it promises for him, the hope it embodies, the deep desire he has to solidify our love, to mark it and honor it; all that it would mean to him. And just the sheer beauty, the gorgeous romance of the idea to begin with, not to mention the delicious fuck-you pleasure of two blokes tying the knot in the face of the world's hostility and ridicule.

The virgin thing! What on earth is the good is our holding off, not that we've been terribly meticulous about it, if there is to be no bloody wedding night ? Nothing to erupt over? Nothing to save ourselves for?

_No wedding night _?

No. There IS a way around this. We WILL make it happen. I'm a huge star, after all.

"Curt."

He exhales a long drag.

"What."

"How solid are you on starting your record on Monday?"

"What are you talking about?"

I turn to him.

"I mean, are you absolutely hell-bent on beginning your record this coming Monday? What if we pushed it ahead a week?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Brian, the studio's booked. My band's flying in tonite. It's all scheduled."

"That's not what I asked you. Are you dead set on starting this Monday?"

He looks off.

"Well …" He looks at me. "But we don't have any choice."

"I'm a huge star, Curt."

"I'm aware of that."

I stand and approach, placing a hand on the counter next to him.

"I practically own Bizou. And Jerry's management contract is coming due next month."

"So?"

"People's legs are broken all the time."

He squints hard.

"People have postponed their studio time before- due to illness or a death in the family, shit like that. It's inconvenient, but it gets rescheduled. This is for acts with _far less_ clout than I have."

He ponders this.

"But, I mean, is there any chance it would fuck with my record at all? I have zero clout."

"You don't need it; you've got me backing you. Curt, we'll tell them you broke your bloody leg, or your arm, or something. They'd have no reason to question that, except, well, Jerry won't believe it, but that doesn't matter, because I can easily put the screws to him by threatening to non-renew his contract if he doesn't postpone things."

I grin.

"In fact, I'm looking forward to it."

"But what about my band?"

I shrug.

"Send them a telegram, or phone them and tell them to enjoy themselves in London for a week, at Bizou's expense, but to be sure to be ready next bloody Monday, without exception."

He takes a drag. I remove it from between his fingers and take one myself, and hand it back to him.

"Besides, are you gonna say no to another week in Ibiza?"

We both exhale.

"More time to prepare our wedding. We don't even have suits, Curt. Or rings. We barely have a cake. I don't want seconds."

"'Seconds'?"

"Our cake's being done under the table since it's such short notice. The baker would have to sneak around and work overtime behind the scenes, all hush hush. And that's even with using Maria's name. I want a proper cake, Curt."

He turns to me and places a hand on my shoulder.

"Brian, are you _absolutely_ _completely_ fucking sure beyond ANY possible doubt that it would NOT fuck with my record? Like, I won't get dropped from the label or something? It's the last chance I'll ever have."

"Come on, it's just a bloody re-schedule for fuck's sake. They're not gonna drop you from the label for that." I grin. "For other things you might do, yes, but not for that."

He looks off, annoyed.

"Curt, do you honestly think I'd be pushing this for a single second if I thought it would jeopardize your career? I intend to see that album go gold, if only for my producing royalties."

He ponders this a minute, then turns to me.

I whisper.

"What good is being a big star if I don't throw my weight around once in a while?"

We look at each other for a minute before I spot the beginnings of a faint twinkle in his eye, followed, almost imperceptibly at first, by a very, very slow movement of his mouth, which develops into the loveliest cheeky grin.


	38. What's Really Important

After quick calls to Maria and Father Pedro to confirm they are both available and okay for a Thursday wedding, I'm on the phone to London. I'm nervous, but also in a way, itching for a fight, eager for something to hold over Jerry's head.

Curt sits in the chair by me, puffing anxiously.

"Hello, Jerry?"

The voice on the other end drips with sarcasm.

"Brian Slade! Well well, my favorite little disappearing act!"

"Your biggest act by far."

"Yes Master Demon, what can I do for you? How can I be of service to you today?"

"Well, you can quit with the bloody attitude for starters. I'll get right to the point. We're going to need to reschedule Curt's studio time- move it up to the following Monday. He's broken his leg, and the doctor says he can't fly."

"Ah ha, I SEE. So you've flown off together into the sunset is that it? And now you call me out of the blue, two weeks after vanishing without a trace, with just a tiny request such as this, is that it?–"

"–Yes!–" I snap. We're talking over each other.

"–Studio time that's been booked for months, studio time I had to scramble and fight for, engineers who've removed themselves from other projects in order to work on your wonder boy's album–"

Thankfully Curt can't hear this.

"–Fuck off with the bloody sob stories! You know as well as I do that studios are rebooked all the time!"

Curt puffs and puffs away, looking worried.

"So how did Mr Wild manage to break his leg, I wonder? Fall off of a giant syringe?"

I scream.

"_LISTEN_ TO ME, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Curt jumps 2 feet in his seat.

"I _OWN_ YOU, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? NEED I REMIND YOU OF THAT? I _MADE_ YOU! AND I CAN BLOODY WELL _UNMAKE_ YOU ! You are GOING to reschedule the recording time, or I will NON-RENEW your CONTACT, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? Those are the terms! Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

I can hear the wheels grinding. After a beat, he responds calmly.

"Brian, listen to me. You can't expect me to welcome such news, especially when it's delivered at virtually the last bloody minute. It will mean an extraordinary amount of shuffling and reshuffling on everyone's part. It's a huge thing to ask. It's highly unprofessional. I'll have to twist a lot of arms."

"Twist them OFF! I don't care! We don't have any choice! Curt can't fly, and that's all there is to it!"

"Is Curt right there? Let me speak with him."

He's caught me off guard. I glance at him and stumble a moment.

"Um, no. He's … upstairs. He's sleeping."

Curt exhales the latest drag and shakes his head slowly side to side. He looks freaked.

"Uh huh, right. Upstairs, tucked in, is he? Look Brian, just so you know, you're an extraordinarily bad liar. I know the broken leg story is bullshit, but guess what? I'm a fantastically busy man, and yes, you're my biggest client, so I'm not gonna press you on it. Partly because I don't think I _want_ to know the real reason you're postponing it. All I can say is, it had better not have anything to do with heroin–"

I'm back to screaming.

"–Do you wanna know the REAL REASON THEN, Jerry? The TRUTH?"

Curt jolts in his seat.

"YOU READY? YOU SITTING DOWN? CURT AND I ARE GETTING MARRIED!"

He leaps up and glares at me in astonishment, mouth open, hand stuck up in his hair.

"What do you make of THAT? And the BISHOP who's MARRYING us was called away for a few days, and so we've had to push the WEDDING DAY up to THURSDAY, which will give us a lovely 3 day HONEYMOON, just before we touch down!"

There's a lengthy pause on the other line.

"Well you're obviously on SOMEthing, Brian. You're talking absolute bloody rubbish, now."

"You know what's funny Jerry? It's NOT rubbish! Since it's so bloody easy for you to tell when I'm LYING, I'm astonished that this skill doesn't transfer to when I'm telling you the absolute TRUTH. Not only are we getting married, we're going the whole hog- church, rings, vows, bishop, full blown bloody ceremony! Now, do I sound like I'm bullshitting ?"

Curt paces nervously, back and forth in front of me, taking puff after short puff, looking terribly worried.

There is a pause on the other end.

"No."

"Good! Now, let me say one more thing to you, Jerry: So help me GOD, if you breathe a single word of this to ANYONE, Mandy, the press or ANYONE on the entire PLANET, I WILL crush your spleen, and both kneecaps. Or rather, I will delight in having it done for me, and that, my friend, is a promise."

Curt's eyes widen. He stops and looks at me like I'm crazy.

"This is in ADDITION to non-renewing your contract, of course. Once again, do I make myself clear?"

There is a sigh.

"Yes."

"Excellent! Let's hear it, then."

Another exasperated sigh. He then speaks rapidly, with great annoyance.

"I'm an extraordinarily busy man, Brian, who has no interest whatsoever in his client's private lives. I'll make the changes you requested; we'll push the time up a week, and there will not be another word spoken about it, or the reasons why, okay? Got it? I have things to do. Goodbye."

He slams down the phone. I turn and do the same.

"Done!" I shout at Curt, grinning. "All set!" I grab his hand and squeeze. "Thursday wedding!" He looks worried.

"Okay, but how was he about it, though? And what the fuck did he _say_ to you that made you flip out and call him a motherfucker?"

The crack about the syringe, he means.

"Er … nothing. I can't remember. It doesn't matter. He said he's gonna do it! I just had to twist his arm a bit. When I brought up the contract, he _immediately_ backed down. It was _fun_!"

I'm giddy. If I were the sporting type, I'd be punching my fist into the air.

Curt is a bit solemn. Why doesn't he join me in my delight?

"I can't believe you told him about the wedding. What if he fucks things up for us?"

"What are you talking about? How could he? Don't be silly."

"What if he tells Mandy? She could hop on a plane and be here in a few hours."

"Curt, you don't know Jerry. He may be a scumbag and an arsehole, but he's extremely dedicated to one thing: money. Particularly his own. He takes 18.5% of my take, which believe me is a fantastically enormous amount. He would never do anything to threaten that. He won't tell a soul, I promise you."

He takes a breath and sits back in the chair, unresponsive.

I stand close, at his side, and run a hand absently up into his scalp.

"Trust me on this."

He nods.

"I do. I do."

"Aren't you happy? It's all set- we're getting married now for sure."

"Yes, of course I am, I'm just a bit … overwhelmed, maybe. It's just … I think it's probably all catching up with me, the last couple of days. I need a stretch of time with nothing dramatic or stressful. An _hour_."

Awful, awful person that I am, I'm only half hearing him. Why? Because … I've begun to be mesmerized, hypnotized, by this magnificent head of clean, fresh smelling, still somewhat-damp-from-the-shower hair, (something I find fantastically alluring). It sits here, below eye level and it's as if I've never quite had this view before. I finger it, toying with individual strands and sections, getting lost in it, intoxicated by the beauty, the thickness, the softness, the gorgeous mixed sandy/dirty blond color, and … the extraordinarily robust testosterone level that such a full, healthy head of hair suggests.

"Curt is a vibrant, virile young male," it says to me. "And you know what _that_ means."

Without being able to stop it, the suggestion, the solution to the problem, slips past my tongue.

"We could have sex."

He exhales in a half laugh. The grin lingers, then begins fading.

"Ya, there's always that."

Once again, much as I do honestly love the notion of saving himself, at this very moment I've gone quite extremely weak. All thoughts, which are now driving the saliva level in my mouth, are trained on the testosterone languishing in his balls.

Accordingly, my eyes travel over his body … down those lovely handsome shoulders … to that delectable forearm hair, have I never mentioned the forearm hair? Not too much, not too little, and all of it that same gorgeous sandy blond. It, like that on his legs, and in other favorite places, is at a level of scrumptiousness for me so as to border on the fetishistic; I can only picture clipping a bit with scissors, and tossing it into my salad.

And here is that fine tanned forearm resting over that fine tanned thigh, the inside of which I can just see through the split in his robe. Brilliant things, thighs. And Curt's are splendiferous- strong and lean and somewhat sinewy; most importantly, _not_ overly muscular- Mr Universe being an enormous turnoff. At the moment, though, I am not turned off at all. My mind can only see those thighs in motion, doing what they were meant for- propelling his hips forward.

Up, yes up, my gaze travels, to the area below where he's knotted the belt, to that pleasingly plump protuberance. Just before I'm about to extend a mental hand to it, his forearm moves. Oh god, it's reaching for the cigarette pack on the counter. It turns it upside down for a good pat so that a single juts out, only for the lucky thing to then be raised to those lips, _popped just inward_, and lit on fire.

Never in my life have I been so jealous of an inanimate object.

And now it's for those cheeks to hollow as he sucks in the first breath, that lovely bumpy chest to expand and hold, and then those lips to pucker … and blow, as Ms Lauren Bacall sort of said, with smoke trailing about him sexily.

All I am able to see is my own cheeks hollowing and moving at lightning speed in his lap, risking both vertigo, and whiplash.

This is god's little joke on bottoms. He knows that the thing we most want: a light-speed, relentless suck-fest will, ironically, put an end to the whole delicious thing in 2 short minutes. At times such as this, we want it both ways- brain bleeding speed, mouth numbing suction, and … about two solid hours of it. But then, that is what cock rings are for. And my only set are upstairs. Damn and blast.

He speaks. His voice is soft.

"We just had sex this morning, didn't we?"

Honestly, given the day's tumultuous events, I could swear it was yesterday.

I've still got my hand up in his hair, toying with it.

"No."

He exhales a breathy laugh.

"No? Then why is there this broken table right here?"

"Okay …, we did, but … it doesn't count."

He chuckles.

"Why not? We both came, I believe."

"But we had our clothes on."

He smiles. He exhales smoke. "Aahh."

I tilt my head to the side, tracing patterns in his scalp.

"Curt?" I say meekly.

"Yup."

"How about if right now you allow me a few itty bitty minutes kneeling time? Reward for all my work this morning. Plus, I haven't had breakfast."

"Jesus!", he laughs. "Come on, Brian."

My voice lowers.

"It'll be quick, I promise. Quick, and delicious."

He moves a chair close, pulls me down to sit by him and looks at me earnestly.

I whisper, ignoring the look, tracing a finger over his nipple, trying to seduce him.

"Please? I really, really want to. If you don't let me, I'll pout for days. Just a tiny, insignificant blowjob."

He mock shrieks.

"_Just_? Brian, you cannot use the word 'just' before the word 'blowjob', ever! Not _your_ blowjobs," He laughs. "They're like a religious fucking experience!"

My face flushes. I try to keep the grin at bay, but can't.

"I'm not kidding! You're a master."

He grins.

"And an artist."

A surge of pride shoots through me. My face flushes further. I look down, feeling as if I've won the Bottoms' version of both the Academy Awards and the Nobel Peace Prize.

"Which is part of why I wanna wait, my baby- cuz it'll _so_ be worth it."

Half of me slumps. The other half isn't listening. My eyes fall to the bulge in his robe. I can't help my brattiness. I reach out for it.

His hand meets mine. He whispers.

"No, Brian."

"But … we've scarcely gone a day without, so what difference does it–."

"–Exactly why we need to do better. So the wedding night will be that much more special. That was the original idea, and I still feel strongly about it. We have the chance to get it right, this time."

"But …" I sigh. "I know. But considering we've gone from three days, Curt, all the way back up to seven, can't we maybe have a, I don't know, a grace period or something ? An adjustment period? An hour of that tranquility you're looking for?"

He turns and stubs out the cig, grinning crooked.

"An hour long blowjob is hardly what I'd call tranquility."

I run a fingertip slowly along his forearm.

"Well, two minutes, then. Just surrender your body to me. Let me be the artist. Please. It'll be over in no time, and then we can start over from there."

He sighs. He lays a tender hand against my jaw.

"Baby, as much as I'd love to take you up on your offer, I'm gonna say no. We have to draw the line somewhere. Plus we just had a fantastically juicy dry hump that snapped a piece of furniture in two–"

"–A custom piece–"

"So that should hold us for a good while, _and_ we have ten thousand wedding things to attend to," he checks the clock, "which we should probably get to right away, before those places close, since a week seems to be the deadline, and today's a week."

I look down. He's right, of course, but I'm finding it extremely, extremely difficult to distinguish the fire in my belly, let alone disguise my disappointment.

He turns my face to him and looks into my eyes with those sweet, brilliant blues.

"It's only a week's wait before we'll be having so much sex you'll wanna puke."

I try to force a smile. It doesn't come.

"I know. I'm just geared up, that's all. I really want you bad right now. Sometimes it's like torture."

"I know. It is for me, too sometimes."

I shake my head.

"No. It's not the same thing." I point to myself. "You're only looking at _me_. _I'm_ looking at _you._"

He laughs.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means your torment can't possibly be as bad as mine, because you're so fucking beautiful and hot and charismatic and blisteringly sexy all the time. And you have an amazing body; Christ, your ass alone, your cock; I worship it. I froth at the mouth behind your back, you have no idea–"

"–Come on, Brian, you're scorching! Are you kidding? Do you actually not realize that ? Why do you think there are thousands of people wanting you every night?" He grins. "I'm just one guy in the crowd, lining up outside your door."

"But I don't want the crowd. I want _you_."

A look of guilt passes over his face. He meshes his fingers into mine and whispers.

"I know."

No, I'm not going to have it like this, guilting the virgin into giving himself up before the wedding. I straighten up.

"It's okay. You're right. I'm sorry. I'll get past it. I'll be strong. Just gimme … a few days."

He smiles and leans forward for a quick kiss. "It won't take a few days." He stands, and heads for the stairs.

"I'll be right down."

I call after him.

"You sure I can't help you out of that robe?"

* * *

><p>We hop on the bike, and hit the bakery first. Sonja greets us with a smile, eyes all lit up as she shakes Curt's hand. Honestly, the effect he has on women, in particular, is really quite remarkable.<p>

I address her in Spanish.

"Sonja, it turns out the wedding's being pushed up a few days, so as kind as your offer to me previously was, we'd like to get on the regular cake schedule, if that's okay."

"Si, senor, we would be happy to."

"So if we order it today, it will be ready for Thursday morning, is that correct?"

"Si."

She leads us to the room with the couches and catalogs, and we flip through. Curt chuckles over some of the more garish or girly numbers, laughing uproariously at the pink cakes, and the polka dot ones.

"Come on, quit looking for the goofiest ones- which one do you _like_? I'm thinking of this one."

I point to a four layer, pale blue one called By the Sea, which is adorned with dozens of sugar seashells, and then to a similar one embossed with a white seashell motif, while Curt prefers something called Ultimate Elegance, which is just a classic 3 tier white cake topped with white rose petals.

"Traditional, I like traditional."

"Okay, but we can have that, and also have it be more personal to us, and our time in Ibiza, and your time in the water, symbolized with the seashells."

He continues to flip the pages. "Ya, I see your point. I don't know, Brian, I'm not very good at this stuff." He points to a photo and shrieks. "Holy shit, check this out! A _red_ wedding cake! Who in fuck would want that?"

"Shhh! They can probably hear you up front!"

"Sorry. But doesn't red suggest like satan or sin, or something, while white suggests purity, and, well," he looks at me and smiles, "virginity, and shit?"

"Yes. Now shush yourself, please; you're swearing again. Let's compromise. We'll go with the round white 5 tier with the embossed seashells. What do you think?"

He peruses the photo. He nods. "Ya, I like it. Good. That's done, then. Let's get the fuck outta here, this shit is too girly for me."

I glare at him.

He covers his mouth.

* * *

><p>Next, to the jeweler, and Alberto, who greets us with a friendly grin.<p>

"You have returned, senor!"

"Yes," I turn. "This is Curt."

"Hello."

He extends a hand and they shake.

"Please, come this way, gentleman."

For the next half hour or so, we try on various bands, and I'm incapable of convincing Curt, who wants silver, to go with gold.

"I just don't really like gold all that much. Silver's cooler."

"But you like traditional, and that's gold. Silver can't touch it for tradition. Plus, like I said before, your coloring absolutely positively screams for gold. It suits you- it's made for blondes."

He ponders a gold band and slips it on.

"It not supposed to be about cool, Curt. Plus, I'm getting gold. They're supposed to match."

"I know, but I can't help it. I still like silver."

I sigh, annoyed. He wants it both ways; he wants traditional, but then he wants to break the rules.

"Okay. Go with what you want, then. You'll be wearing that ring a long time, so you'd better get something you like."

He grins sheepishly. "Sorry, baby. It's just … I think silver's more rock n roll, I really do. It's more me. I'm gonna go with it."

"Okay." I'm still a bit annoyed, but I let the feeling pass. What, I'm going to get mad at Curt over his wedding ring? The ring he wants to wear when he _marries_ me ?

We get fitted for size, complete the order, confirm a Thursday morning pickup, thank Alberto, and leave.

"Few! Fucken whirlwind!" Curt exclaims out on the sidewalk. "What next?"

"Florist," I reply wearily. I should have napped before we left- the whole thing's beginning to get on top of _me_, now. I mean really, what a day. We start out with Curt telling me he wants to break up, we then _make_ up, fuck on top of the table, host and get interviewed by a bishop for pity's sake, I then go cake-ing and jewelery-ing on my own, then home to discover the wedding's off, then it's on again, then the stress of my call to Jerry, the arousal over Curt's hair and my resulting transportation into blowjobland, and now back to chasing around town on wedding business. Insanity.

Well, at least this will be it. Other than our suits, cleaning up the church, rehearsing our dance, and at least some of the wedding ceremony, working on our vows, and … I _think_ that's it. Phew. At some point in the middle of all this, I do hope to have a vacation, still. We have yet to hit the historic movie theatre in town, and Curt hasn't swum for days.

* * *

><p>At the florist, possibly because I'm tired, I go a bit overboard and order their top line. A mix of white, pale pink, and baby blue roses, hydrangea, lilac, and … we even manage to secure through special order Curt's beloved Apple Blossoms, which he is absolutely giddy over, having believed it wasn't possible.<p>

"Brian, it's a miracle! Maria won't believe it!"

The funny point comes when we tell them the church.

"Sorry, senor, _which_ place?"

"St Tomas'. It's over on," I turn to him. He's on the other end of the room sniffing green Sweet Williams'. "Where is it Curt?"

"Lourdes Street."

The woman looks surprised and confused.

"It's not used much, apparently."

"No, senor. It has never been used for a wedding to my knowledge, or for much of anything, as far as I know."

"Do you know why that is? It's such a lovely place."

"Perhaps because it is rather secluded, and has fallen into some disrepair."

These two things I like hearing. Seclusion = privacy. Disrepair means it's been underused and neglected, and there is something especially romantic about the thought of bringing a wedding to the place to liven it up.

Curt approaches, grinning. "It's sorta like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree."

I look at him blankly.

"Have you never seen that ?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Jesus Christ, you're kidding. Charlie Brown is a character in the Peanuts cartoon, and they made a Christmas show out of it, in which he goes out to buy a tree for the Christmas play, and they warn him to get the biggest, nicest tree, I think they actually want him to get a _fake_ tree, and when he walks through the grounds with his best friend Linus looking at all the gaudy fake trees, he spots this sad little real tree on it's last legs, and that's the one they choose."

I blink. "Okay."

"The moral of the story being, Christmas is too commercialized, and here is this little neglected tree symbolizing what's really important. The church is sort of like that, maybe. No one would look at it twice, but it's like the underdog. It's got, y'know, a soul to it, or something. A spirit."

I grasp onto his hand and squeeze, my heart swelling up in my chest at Curt … just being Curt.


	39. Wonderboy

After confirming the details and paying the bill, we're off.

I sigh in exhaustion.

"Okay, the only thing left is the suits. Can it wait til tomorrow, my love? I'm absolutely famished, and I'm just wiped out from all this. It's too much in one day."

Curt points the bike into the street.

"Manana; no problemo."

"Spanish phrase! I'm supposed to be teaching you."

"Yes, you are, Demon."

I ponder this a moment as we fly down the road.

"Wait, do you remember any of the other ones I taught you?"

"Umm, okay, um. Yes! Te … te quiero!" he shouts.

"Meaning?"

"I love you, of course!"

"And the other one, relevant to today?"

"Um, shit. Wait. Wait … relevant to today … fuck …"

As I look up, we're sailing straight through a red light.

"Curt!", I scream, just as we're swerving around a vehicle.

"Jesus CHRIST will you watch where you're GOING ?"

"Sorry! Sorry! I was distracted! I'll pay attention, don't worry."

"No more Spanish lessons on the bike!"

Before long we arrive back, and I drag myself off the back end. I really am rather spent.

"Shall I carry you across the threshold, dear ?" he jokes, as we're walking up the step.

"Fuck off. Just open that door and make me a cup of tea. And maybe some dinner."

"Not possible. I don't cook, other than slapping together a bologna sandwich or frying up a hotdog."

"Disgusting. After we're married, you won't eat such rubbish. I have a personal chef, which means you will too."

He inserts the key into the lock and we walk in. It's startling all over again to see the broken table.

We stand in the doorway surveying the mess.

"I absolutely cannot believe we did this."

"Fuck, neither can I. What will we do with it?"

I plop down in a chair.

"Just leave it. Tomorrow when we go for the suits, we'll hit a furniture shop in town and replace it. Fuck custom- I'm not waiting a bloody month for a kitchen table."

He fills the kettle with water and plugs it in, then removes the chicken and asparagus from the fridge and inserts it into the stove for warming. He then sits next to me. We reach out and hold hands. It doesn't matter how many times we do this, it still feels amazing; comforting, romantic, incredibly beautiful.

We speak softly to each other.

"Huge day. Big fucken day."

"Yes. Probably one of the biggest of my life, actually. Though not as big as the day coming up."

"Or the weekend," he grins.

I rub my free hand over my face.

"Curt, I wanna make sure we enjoy ourselves, too. There's all this planning and plotting and it's quite intense. I want us to have our vacation too. Why don't we swim, later?"

He turns to look.

"_You_ wanna swim?"

"Yes," I reply, mildly offended. "You remember, on El Vedrà, we swam together."

"Oh ya, that's right." He laughs. "Fuck, that feels like 6 months ago. What, have we, like, broken up 3 times since then?"

"And made up 3 times." My mind lingers. I whisper absently. "Make-up sex."

He stands suddenly to check on the chicken.

"You are fuck-oriented today, my friend."

"It's hormones. I must be ovulating."

"Har har." He dips a finger into the juice to taste it, squints, looks up, "Not quite," and sticks it back in. He sits, and takes my hand again. I turn to look.

"You aren't?"

He sighs, exasperated.

"Well, I'm _trying _not to be, Brian. I really don't think talking about it helps."

"Sorry, I didn't realize it was an off limits topic, suddenly."

"Don't be pissy. I'm just trying to focus on other things, that's all."

I look off.

"I know. It's one of those things- on paper, holding off is the most wonderful and romantic idea in the world, and I'm in love with it. In practice, I guess I sort of hate it."

He looks over at me.

"Can we not talk about it?"

I drop his hand.

"Okay, okay. _You_ decide what things we can talk about, then."

"Brian, I'm not getting into a fight with you tonite. We've been doing enough fighting–"

"–And not enough fucking," I blurt.

He glares at me, mouth parted.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm tired and antsy and bitchy. I'll shut up now, I promise."

"I don't want you to shut up. Just about this one topic, just to help ease the way for both of us. Honestly, is that so much to ask?"

He stands and checks the chicken.

"No, no. It's not. I'm sorry, I really am. Ignore me."

He fingers the chicken again. "Perfect. Let's eat on the back deck. We've never done that."

I rise and gather plates, utensils, bread rolls, and wine, and we park ourselves outside under the awning.

The conversation is relaxed, and flows easily between us, without a hitch, though I do continue to feel this undercurrent of sexual frustration that I can't seem to squash for some reason. Maybe I _am_ ovulating.

"Brian, did you ever wish you had a brother?"

I finish my sip of wine, and dig into the chicken.

"Are you kidding? Absolutely, growing up. In some ways it was great being an only child, because you were the sole recipient of all the attention, but you also didn't have anyone else to blame things on if you got into trouble, and no built-in playmate. No one to sort things out with."

He slices into a leg.

"Did you have friends?", he asks.

"Not all that many. Some kids at school, one boy named James was my best friend in primary school, and a girl – total tomboy named Maureen I hung with a bit, but that was about it, until I got older."

"Like, how much older?"

"I don't know, 12? Around the time I discovered masturbation."

He laughs.

"I would have thought that would have been when you _stopped_ leaving the house."

"No. I sort of came out of my shell, so to speak. A bit, anyway."

"What about music; when did you discover music?"

"Oh, well, that was very early. When I would stay at my wayward Auntie's place in London during summertimes. That started when I was maybe 6. Remember the theatre?"

"Oh ya, and your queer uncle."

"Uh huh. Well it was this dodgy old place, once the toast of the town, but by the time I came along it was a sort of past it's prime. It was a Vaudeville music hall type place with questionable characters everywhere, but a _ton _of music. There was a band, in the orchestra pit, of course, which to me was like this fantastic secret place. I had a crush on the horn player."

"A man?"

I laugh. "Ya! And I was like 8, I think."

"What did you, what did you think about that? Were you confused about why you into a guy?"

"No, I think I knew what was going on, because I'd had the same feelings towards girls in my school, so I sort of knew what was happening, even though I tried to pretend it was nothing."

"Did he befriend you at all?"

"Yes, he and his wife, who would come to watch rehearsals. He was a thoroughly decent chap, amazing horn player too. We actually had quite a few good players, considering how run down the place was. The piano player, who must have been about a hundred years old, was like fucking Scott Joplin, or something."

"Love Scott Joplin! That ragtime shit is ageless. Like Bigband. Swing."

"Oh fuck, absolutely. Tommy Dorsey and all them. Fuck, I heard buckets of Bigband growing up. I was obsessed with it."

"Christ, me too! Benny Goodman. Those guys kicked some major fucking ass, man. There was no two ways about it. I would love to have been a teenager in like 1945."

"I wonder if there were Spanish Bigbands."

"Oh fuck, Brian. What is that Spanish phrase … on the bike, you were asking me?"

"Oh ya. The one relevant to right now. It means, 'we're getting married', do you remember?"

"OH, fuck. Fuck, it's sort of coming to me. What is it … 'casotta'?"

"Close. 'Casados', meaning married. The phrase is, 'estamos consiguiendo casados'."

"Yes! I remember now! Estamos consig …"

"Consiguiendo."

"Estamos consiguiendo casados!"

"Perfect!" I laugh.

He tilts his head back and shouts.

"Estamos Consiguiendo casados!"

We laugh like fools.

Curt grins proudly. He raises his wine glass and clinks it against mine.

"I'll drink to that."

* * *

><p>We sit back, surveying the beauty of the setting, the calmness of the sea, the gulls swooping and skimming over the water, the distant sand dunes. The breeze tosses Curt's hair softly about, and it strikes me how much he really is in his element, here. Not a thing I would ever have guessed prior to our arrival. He just seems to flower in this setting; he's so natural and relaxed and happy, and I want to freeze the moment. I don't want to let it go. I want never to leave.<p>

He reaches for my hand, eyes still on the water, speaking softly.

"Brian, what do you want out of life?"

I look at him.

"Not much."

"I mean, like, do you have any especially big goals, things you wanna accomplish before you die? Stuff you haven't done already?"

"I don't really care about that stuff anymore. I've been rather ambitious for a lot of my life. It seems empty to me now; a waste of time."

"But it's got you where you are. It's got you this house."

I sigh.

"The things that got me this house are more about hype and timing and sleezy management than anything else, I think. People were ready for fashion and pizazz, glitz, as the Americans say. We were so bloody tired and bored with the sixties. I just slipped right in and made a splash, that's all."

"You shouldn't put your music down. There's some of it I really like."

"I'm not even talking about the music necessarily. I'm talking the business; the hype, the show. I just feel like I'm through with that. My needs and desires have simplified tremendously in the last few months, to the point where I want very little- just you, really."

He grins shyly.

"It's the truth. That's the impact you've had on me. I have no time for the bullshit anymore. I just wanna be with you, period. Nothing else matters."

"I know. I feel the same way. It's incredibly fucking freeing, isn't it? When you've found the person you want to be with?"

We lean forward for a sweet, slow kiss. After a minute, we pull back and sit in silence, watching the water. The kiss is still with us both. We need time to let it pass. Finally, I clear my throat.

"So what about you? What do you want out of life? You must have some hopes for your career."

He thinks a minute.

"See, 'career', that's not a word I've ever associated with my relationship to music. Ya, I'd like to have _some_ small semblance of success, maybe. Just a taste of it, just to make enough money to have something in the bank, finally. So long as I don't have to water down the music, or pretend to be what I'm not, or something. I can't stand fake shit and pretending. I can't stand the accountants and suits. Music will always be an art form, to me; something just … visceral and primal and _physical_ and real and just … completely fucking necessary; _not_ a luxury. Those people don't understand that, and they don't even care that they don't."

I nod in agreement.

"I'd also like to travel a bit. See other cultures."

"You will. The tour will take us all over the world. The glamour of it will wear off quick, I'm afraid."

He squeezes my hand.

"It's alright. We can come back here at some point to get away."

Before I realize it, I've blurted the thought, the fantasy that's been lurking in the back of my mind for days.

"Why don't we move here?"

"Huh?"

"I said why don't we move here? If you want. After the tour. You can't imagine how much I've been dreading the return to London, Curt. We could live like ordinary citizens, here. Nobody cares who we are."

He stammers a bit.

"But … I mean … could we? For real?"

"I don't see why not. Mandy will want the London residence, and then her flat and the place in the country will be sold. Of course, her lawyer brother will wipe out much of my estate, but I'm confident we'll retain Ibiza because she never cared for it." I grin. "She couldn't stand the anonymity."

"You're dead serious."

"Of course! Not only that, but I'll put your name on the deed straightaway so we'll both own it. That way if I croak before you, no one can take the place from you." I chuckle with delight. "Oh god, you simply cannot _imagine_ the pleasure it will bring me to scratch her name off the books and replace it with yours."

I look at him. His eyes have misted over. He's clearly staggered, blinking, unsure of how to act or what to say. My heart swells. It's such an exquisitely beautiful thing, to watch the beginnings of a dream forming in his eyes, to see him excited like a little boy and yet completely caught off guard, disbelieving his own ears; afraid to advance towards it, to embrace it, convinced it will disappear if he does.

The warmth in my insides radiates to my lips and I break into a broad, smitten-ous grin.

He's fidgeting still. Oh god how I love this.

"So, what do you think?"

"I … I don't know. Just … sounds too good to be true."

I lean towards him and kiss the back of his hand.

"Whatever makes you happy, my angel, whatever brings you joy and peace, is too good _not_ to bring true."

He looks off shyly, eyes emotional.

"Talk to me, Curt."

"I-I … don't know what to say."

"Is it something you would want, living here?"

He exhales a nervous half laugh.

"Are you kidding? Of course. It would be … _incredible_."

"Then …?"

"Brian, it just seems so unreal. Like something out of the fucking movies. You have to remember, I grew up in a broken down trailer, with _nothing_, my whole fucking life. The idea of living on my own private beach in Spain is just … totally insane. _Nuts_."

I squeeze his hand.

"I know. But if it's what you would want, I promise you, all you have to do is say the word, and we'll do it. There's nothing to stop us."

He's looking off, a bit dazed still.

"London's a reasonably quick flight, but the States are a long way, I'm afraid."

His voice is flat.

"That's okay. I have very few connections there anymore, other than my friend Jim."

"You can invite him out here whenever you want. My treat. What about your band, though?"

He fidgets.

"I-I don't know."

"Well, when you need to rehearse with them or whatever, you could fly back and maybe rent a temporary flat for a while, however long you need."

"No, I'd stay with Jim- we're like brothers."

"He has his own place?"

"He lives with his rich girlfriend."

I squint.

"Is she pretty?"

He laughs.

"Yes, but don't worry, she's a suit- she works in the industry; definitely not my type."

He takes a deep breath and looks at me finally.

"I sorta can't believe we've just decided this, Brian."

"Have we?"

He takes a very deep breath and smiles beautifully.

"Yes."

I leap from my seat and grab his face with both hands. I whisper to him.

"I love you so much."

We kiss each other fully, breathlessly, the warm breeze blowing our hair about, before pulling away.

"I love you too, my baby."

I sit back, holding both of his hands. We're smiling at each other like fools.

"So, you can see yourself living on this beach every day? You don't think you'll get bored at all?"

"Shit, no. There's that rock club in town we went to. Places to hike. Swimming. I don't really need much."

"I've always intended to put a studio in the basement. I'll look into it. That would be ideal."

"Fuck, ya."

His head swivels.

"Oh look, Brian!"

* * *

><p>We walk to the lounge chairs and, like we have done tragically few times in these two weeks, we hold hands and watch the sunset. It's particularly purple tonite, or magenta, rather, and Curt, as always, is beside himself dazzled, hyper-excited by it, like a little boy at Christmas. Fuck I do love this about him. If I could just describe his face to you … it positively beams with the most amazing sort of radiant light. He's almost delirious with joy and … wonder, that's the word. A childlike wonder and awe. It's such an extraordinary thing to behold- I can't help myself, I almost come to tears, because there's an innocence to it, a purity, that breaks my heart even as it warms it. It gives me that window into what he must have been like as a boy, which of course, saddens me, given his history.<p>

* * *

><p>I am reminded of a delightful song by the Kinks, a ditty, really, which was John Lennon's favorite Kinks song, entitled appropriately enough, "Wonderboy," whose lyrics go like this:<p>

_Wonderboy, life's just begun._

_Turn your sorrow into wonder_

_Dream alone, don't sigh, don't groan_

_Life is only what you wonder._

_Day is as light as your brightest dreams,_

_Night is as dark as you feel it ought to be._

_Time is as fast as the slowest thing,_

_Life is only …_

_Wonderboy,_

_Wonderboy._

_Everybody is looking for the sun._

_People strain their eyes to see,_

_But I see you and you see me,_

_And ain't that wonder?_


	40. Not In A Million Years

And too quickly it's over. We continue to sit, however, "basking in the afterglow", as Curt calls it. It's so comfortable here, and comforting, I could go straight to sleep. After Curt finishes off the wine bottle, we reluctantly turn in, following a half hour's animated discussion touching on everything from the ukelele (Novelty item – my take, or Hawaiian cultural touchstone? – Curt's) to Chinese food, ("Egg drop soup! I'll never in my life forget the first and only time I ever had that shit, by mistake, of course. It was at this completely shithole restaurant downtown Detroit. I took one slurp of that shit, and almost literally fucking croaked! It tasted exactly like a bowl of rotten come left out on a hot day! Took me _weeks_ to get over that, I swear!")

We're coming up the stairs when I notice him swaying a bit on his feet, and giggling under his breath- he's drunk more wine than usual, and is slightly tipsy, which is really quite adorable.

At the top of the stairs I hear the phone by the bed ring. I lunge for it, expecting Maria or the bishop, or perhaps the florist, which is why I don't immediately recognize the voice on the other end.

"Where the fuck have you been? I've been calling for the last hour."

My insides immediately bind up.

I begin to answer, saying we'd been outside, then stop myself. I don't owe her any explanations.

"What the hell do you want, Mandy?"

Curt's head whips around. He stands 3 feet away, watching me.

"Why on earth are you calling here?"

As Jerry's did earlier today, her voice drips with sarcasm.

"Well I just heard the news that you're extending your extended vacation and postponing the record, which puts a tremendous strain on everyone here, not that you give a shit, and I wondered just what the fuck was going on."

"Jerry must have told you- Curt broke his leg. He can't fly."

"Ya, he told me. Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you guys getting UP to down there?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. He fell. It's none of your business."

"I beg to differ with you, sweetheart. I believe what, or rather _who _my husband does _is_ my bloody business."

I shout.

"_Nothing_ I do is your business! And you're my wife in title only, _darling_, just remember that! The only 'business' in it is that it's a business _arrangement_!"

"Well you haven't exactly been attending to your _own_ business, have you? You fly the fucking coop in the middle of the night without telling anyone, I have to find out from that stupid little fucking cryptic _note_ you left, and then lo and behold, you've taken your number one loser, addict boyfriend WITH you–"

"Yes, Curt IS my boyfriend, and my LOVER and he fucking kicks your ass all over town in bed, let me tell you; all over the WORLD in fact !"

Curt sits down next to me, giggling.

She begins shrieking something unintelligible into the phone, but I'm not listening, I'm talking over her, growing more and more livid each moment.

"YES! And do you wanna know what he's doing to me right NOW, Mandy?"

Curt laughs in delight, covering his mouth so as not to be heard, and then huddles close, ear next to the phone, to try to listen in.

"INCREDIBLE IN BED! With the THICKEST, MOST DELICIOUS JUICY COCK–"

"–You always WERE a COCKSUCKER, Brian!"

Curt chuckles.

"Definitely! And it turns out Curt's mouth is like a bloody vice grip!"

"Oh, well THAT'S a big fucking surprise!"

He laughs into my hair.

I'm not finding it, any of it, funny.

"You know what, Amanda? Right at this moment he's got his face right up into my fucking NECK."

He moves in tight and kisses behind my ear, playing along, giggling.

"He won't STOP! He won't leave me ALONE!"

He continues. He smells amazing- like tobacco and Merlot.

"Well I'm really ENJOYING this little long distance phone sex session, Brian! It's tremendously exciting!"

He cackles into my neck.

"Yes, and right now,–"

I grab his hand, and jam it into my crotch, moving it round in fury at Mandy, wanting her to seethe with rage and jealousy. He resists a moment, then allows me, giggling along.

"–You know what, Brian? I couldn't care less what you do with Curt! I've HAD him !"

"YES, and he said you SUCKED!"

"I sucked his COCK! Did he tell you THAT?"

A surge of pain shoots through me- it's so hurtful to be reminded. Curt's face is back into my neck, kissing and giggling, unaware of the turn the conversation has taken. In my frustration and pain I shove him away, hard, and he slips onto the floor like a ragdoll, tittering away the whole time.

I scream into the phone.

"Yes he DID, you FUCKING WASTREL _CUNT_ ! His and ten thousand other people's!"

Curt pulls himself up and kneels in a crouch at my feet, reaching for my crotch. I bat his hand away annoyedly.

"That's nothing compared with all the cocks YOU'VE sucked! All the come YOU'VE swallowed!"

He parts my knees and slides his mouth up my stomach, giggling. What was IN that wine? Or is it just the mischievous side of him who can't resist toying with me whilst I'm on the phone with Mandy? Or, is he actually initiating sex, for real?

"He _did_ tell you he shot his load into my mouth, didn't he ?"

No, he didn't. THAT I would have remembered.

Curt, oblivious, ever giggles. He's slid his lips directly over my cock, kissing the material, as he fingers the zipper. I'm livid. Could he have have lied to me about that? Left that one painful little detail out? One that maybe, to him, wouldn't matter?

Why would it MATTER to me ?

Because it WOULD !

And what the fuck IS he doing right now, on his knees fiddling with my zipper? We can fool around when HE's in the mood, but not when _I_ am ? THAT'S how this goes? I shove back at him once more, and push him away with the bottom of my foot. He lands backward on his elbows on the floor, laughing at the delightful little game this has become.

"Hey Mandy?"

"What!"

"FUCK YOU !" I shriek, and slam down the phone. I'm exhausted and freaked out by the call, shaking and sweating, extraordinarily upset to have spoken to her at all, especially when I was completely unprepared for it, but also to have heard what I heard, and so I lash out at him.

He's up on his knees again, crawling towards me with sultry eyes.

"You can QUIT your little fucking GAME now, Curt! Mandy's off the phone!"

He lifts his face towards my neck and whispers breathily, giggly.

"Well, maybe I don't _wanna_ quit."

I shove at him and move to get up.

"I SEE, so when YOU'RE hot for it, it's perfectly okay, is that it?"

He holds me in place, with both hands on my waist.

"When YOU'RE turned on there's no 'waiting', is there? But when _I_ am …!"

I squirm away as he tries to kiss me.

Enough!

The next thing I feel is my forearm turning at a right angle to my body. The next thing I feel after that is a stinging pain in my open palm.

I look up. His eyes are huge, his mouth is hung open in shock. The left side of his face is red, with a white hand print across his cheek. I've bloody well gone and slapped him. Hard.

I gasp in horror.

"Curt! Oh my god–"

In a millisecond, it's so fast I don't even see it, he delivers a sharp, stinging blow in return. Jesus _CHRIST_ it _smarts_! It bloody well takes your breath away !

We stare at each other in astonishment, mouthes open, breathing elevated, stunned by the sudden violence between us, the sudden aggression. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to make of this. It's so weird and scary and fucked up and … all I know is …

My cock has shot up in my trousers …

I'm so turned on,

I …

we …

lunge for each other.

Devouring; mad, furious kissing, hyperventilating, hands up inside each other's scalps, grabbing hair and jaw and ear, fumbling with clothes, forcing buttons and zippers, tearing off shirts, grunting and panting; fighting, genuinely, by the sound of us.

In an instant he shoots up off his knees and yanks at the base of my pant legs which then go flying across the room. He then just as ungently liberates me from my knickers. Then it's to his hand to jerk open the night table and scramble for the lube he knows he will find there, the one with the flip-top cap, which, with one hand, he puts right to use.

Immediately my legs are then flung straight upward, hips grasped firmly, and _IN_ he plunges, fully, without delay.

I cry out, pleading and gasping from the shooting pain, but he allows me no time to recover; he's deep inside and pushing, plowing with force, rapidly, relentlessly, and it's … absolutely incredible. No mercy whatever, no permission sought, just the thick unyielding hardness thrusting with all it's might into the soft tight space. _You_ are the one who must accommodate, _you_ are the one who must adjust, comply, oblige, yield.

Oh GOD but it does tap into those secret, wanton cravings.

With each slap of skin, with each bounce of his balls against me I'm calling out like a madman, slipping up and back again, neck jerking, creating a groove in the mattress with my head, coming closer and closer to orgasm like I maybe never have. It's the sheer shock of it all, the suddenness, the carelessness and ceaselessness, the depth and terrible yet sweet/intense inner pressure.

I manage to crack open heavy lids. His are electric in their lust, in their drive, in their hunger and sheer, naked greed; the giddy, giggly boy long gone.

Quickly he withdraws himself from me … and I'm spun about, flipped, without warning, unceremoniously onto my belly, my legs kicked apart, for the re-lube and re(ar)-entry of my life.

OhFUCKohGODohSHIIIITTT !

In this position, with back arched upward and bottom spread, oh, but he _does_ ram deeply, with intent, he does tunnel with ferocity. I gasp and shriek and scramble for air, for any sort of foothold on my sanity; elbows and fingers and knuckles and teeth ground into the blanket, hanging on, truly, barely, for dear life. A small, vulnerable port, bracing against the battering storm.

OH the delicious wickedness of pulverization, of being demolished, thrashed, minced to a pulp.

What … WHAT …? my brain clambers, … _was in that wine_ ?

For several minutes I'm maneuvering the tightrope, teetering on that unbearable, spacy-headed just-before Edge, half blinded by continuous, pending orgasm which sits just exactly right _there_; I can see it and taste it, but due to a need to hang onto this mattress with all my might, lest I go flying, I'm incapable of bringing it home myself.

Mercifully his hand makes contact, but immediately, it's too much; in 10 seconds I'm off, spitting and coming with a bloodcurdling cry that rattles my lungs, the sound of which apparently drives him batty, as he is now at Full Tilt High Octane Ram, thrusting with a powerful, unnatural strength that should be, surely _must_ be illegal.

A short time later his own noises escalate, and he hurtles himself yet faster and further and slams inward, reaching, as he comes, for the deepest point in my body.

We are then each gasping/wheezing asthmatics, or so it sounds; limp, sopping, thoroughly spent.

He dislodges himself and climbs onto the mattress, pulling me upward to him, spoon style.

I turn round and bury my face, gasping into the still heaving chest, in the throws of a particularly profound episode of imprinting.

("Imprinting: rapid learning, normally very difficult to extinguish, that occurs during a brief receptive period, typically soon after birth or orgasm, that establishes a long-lasting behavioral response to a specific individual.")

His arms circle round my back and we drift quietly off.

* * *

><p>In the morning when I awaken he is laying face up next to me, smoking, bent elbow behind his head.<p>

I turn sideways toward him and lay a soft hand on his torso.

He looks.

I lean over and whisper to him. I can't help myself.

"I'm insanely in love."

"Okay," He smiles wryly. "Who with?"

I lay a hand on his jaw and study his features.

"This outrageously beautiful, insatiable dirty-blonde American rock star I know."

We kiss, lingering slowly, my head deep inside a fluffy cloud.

We pull back. His mouth is crooked.

"Okay, I give up, who is it?"

I laugh and trace soft circles around his nipple.

"Um, well this guy smokes like a chimney. He's from Michigan of all places, and he plays really exceptionally raunchy garage rock. Earsplitting. A bit of a _wild_man, you might say."

He turns his head and groans. I pull it back with a finger under his chin. My face splits into a wide smile.

"We did it last night."

He laughs.

"We did."

I run a hand up into his hair, pushing it away from his eyes.

"You wanna know how I know?"

"How?"

I lean into his ear and whisper exaggeratedly.

"My bottom aches."

He smiles.

"Terribly. But it's a lovely, delicious sort of ache."

"Okay."

"I think you must have done something to it."

He laughs.

We kiss quickly.

"Do _you_ ache anywhere?"

He takes a drag on his cig and exhales out his answer.

"Um, well … I got a small sore spot on my back, actually."

I caress his sternum.

"Oh, well we can't have that. I need you to have a good strong back, Curt."

He laughs.

"Turn over and I'll massage it out of you."

He laughs harder.

"You woke up frisky."

"It's your fault. You sent me to bed that way."

He smiles.

I look down at my finger caressing his torso.

"The funny thing is, I was _fuming_ mad at you last night."

He looks.

"Because I hit you?"

"No, before that. Earlier in the day, before we went out, I was–"

"–Ya, you were pretty horny."

I laugh.

"Yes, quite. And then you sat me down all adult and mature and–"

"–I know. I told you no."

"Only to come onto me while I was on the phone."

"Sorry. I was sorta drunk. I got carried away. I'm a drug boy; I don't know from wine."

I grin.

"It's okay. It was very sweet."

"Sweet?"

"You were adorable. You were like this giddy little puppy, rolling around on the floor on your belly."

He looks at me.

"Jesus, did I?"

I laugh.

"No, not literally. I mean, you did fall over backwards at one point, after I sort of kicked you away with my foot, but you still came up giggling like a little boy. It was lovely. But that's not the story of the evening. The story of the evening is that you were an absolute madman, Curt. Let me just set the record straight right here and say that you're without question the best fuck I've ever had."

He bursts out laughing.

"Or ever will have. By a mile! A hundred miles! You were incredible; you were just … you punished my backside and you wouldn't let up, you wouldn't give me a second's rest. You're the top of my dreams- my _wet_ dreams."

He smiles.

I lay my head along his shoulder.

"You're amazing too, y'know."

"Oh come on. Seriously. What did I do but lay back and take it? I did nothing!"

He puts the cig aside and slips his fingers into mine.

"Brian, what do you think drives me to go so nuts? You think standing there watching you and _listening_ to you doesn't make me apeshit? You're SO unbelievably sexy and responsive, it just makes me completely fucking mental."

"But how could I not react when you're pounding away like that? I've never had _anyone_ wail into me the way you do. You're ferocious! I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't fucking _think _! I want you to promise me, please, that whatever anger or frustration I ever cause you from now on, you'll bottle up and take out on me in bed."

He laughs.

"I'm serious!"

"Jesus, you make it sound like I beat you up!"

"You did, in a way! In a really exquisitely wonderful way. You were blistering! You just took command and flipped me over when you wanted it and assaulted my bottom and it was absolutely incredible."

He smiles.

"I was incredibly turned on, I know that."

"Yes."

We look off into the room, pondering.

"I don't even really understand what happened. I know you hit me and it knocked the wind out of me–"

I curl my chest towards him.

"–I'm so sorry."

He laughs. "No, it's okay. It's just that it shocked the shit out of me. It was completely out of left field; stung like a motherfucker. You pack a surprisingly mighty punch, Demon. But I was so mad, I just wailed away at you, not even thinking."

He looks at me.

"Sorry. Soon as I'd done it, I couldn't believe what had just happened- it was all so quick. And then I realized, I mean …"

He dissolves into laughter.

"… I was hard!"

I laugh with him.

"Which totally confused me in my semi-drunken state. I think it must have been … I don't know!"

We laugh together.

"It was just mixed signals or something. I'd just been fooling around fiddling with your zipper, I think, and the rush of anger I felt when you slapped me, it was so sudden it just shot through me like a rocket, and my cock, I don't know, it took it the wrong way!"

We giggle and giggle.

"As far as it was concerned, there was some sudden outside stimulus involving _you_, and that's all it needed to know!"

We giggle further.

"What about you! What excuse do you have?"

I blush a bit.

"I don't know. I mean, you'd been holding me, and I'd been squirming around in your arms, but then it was just so shocking, being slapped- nobody'd ever done that to me before, and it just brought the heat to my face and the next thing I knew, my cock just went – ZANGO! I couldn't leap on you fast enough!"

We dissolve into fits of laughter, before eventually quieting and looking off into the room. He reaches for the cig.

I speak softly. I'm nervous.

"Curt?"

He takes a drag.

"Mmm?"

"There's something I wanna ask you."

"Okay."

I hesitate. In reality, it's the last thing I want to ask him.

"It's um, it's … something Mandy said on the phone."

"Okay."

"It's about … when you and her … when she and you …"

He exhales quickly.

"Christ, what about it?"

"Well, um … she said … she said … I know you told me …" Jesus this is excruciating. "she … went down on you–"

"–Fuck, Brian, I mean, do we really have to talk about this? I was tripping!"

"I know. I know. It's just this one little thing."

"What?"

I raise my head to look at him.

"She said …" I take a breath, "she said you came in her mouth."

He winces. He speaks cooly.

"I told you what happened."

"I know. I know, but I wondered if maybe you'd, I mean, like you said, you were tripping, and I was afraid … maybe you'd forgotten some details or something."

He shakes his head slowly.

"No, Brian. Do you honestly think if I'd come in your wife's mouth, I would have forgotten that? She knelt down and did her thing to get me going so she could climb on board and take advantage of me and then insult me and tell me what a shit loser I was. That was _it_."

"Okay. I'm sorry. It was just … bothering me."

"Because you thought I lied?"

"No, no, not … deliberately. Like I said, I thought maybe because of the angel dust, that you maybe hadn't … remembered everything."

He doesn't respond. His eyes and his face are hard. I resist the urge to reach out to him and instead lay my head sideways on his shoulder, pleading with the tension to pass. We lay in silence, for minutes. Each time he pulls on the cigarette my head elevates slightly, then lowers back down as he exhales, a sensation I'm finding pleasantly hypnotic. Finally though, I can stand the silence no more.

"Don't be angry with me, my angel."

A few moments pass before he responds.

"I just don't want stupid little shit like this coming between us. I don't want fucking Mandy coming between us."

"She won't."

"Hasn't she already though? A bit just now?"

I raise my head.

"But that was my fault. I can't help it. I'm just so fucking … possessive of you …" I feel a sudden surge of emotion rising in me. "Possessive of _blowing_ you, even … you have no idea."

I hate it. I hate _so_ much that she's been with him, that she's had her mouth on him. It rips me to shreds.

"To me that's something … incredibly private between us, and sort of … _sacred_ and special, something only _I_ do, and, …" My eyes fill. "I, I, I just can't literally bear to think of anyone else …"

"There _hasn't_ been anyone else, Brian."

He studies my face and touches my lips with his fingers.

"Not since I've known you. And there won't ever _be_ anyone else."

Our eyes lock. I exhale warm breath onto his hand. There is a decided shift in the level of tension, in the room, in me, and I feel a burning ache in my belly. My tongue protrudes, til it brushes against him.

He pulls back quickly.

"Don't," he whispers.

I gulp and lower my head to his shoulder again.

"Sorry."

Back to the silence and my head rising and falling.

When he speaks finally, his voice is low.

"Brian, what's gonna happen when she finds out?"

What, _what_ on earth possessed me to bring her up in the first place?

"You mean … about the marriage?"

"The divorce."

I clear my throat, sit up, and cross my legs to face him.

"She'll flip out and her brother will represent her, and he'll try to wipe me out–"

"–No, I don't mean that. I mean … what will the divorce do to like, your career? You seemed to think she's popular with the fans."

"She is, immensely so."

"So will it have a big impact, do you think?"

"I don't know, I don't know. But, I mean …," I sigh in exasperation. "_I_ write the bloody songs, _I'm_ the singer and the player. Mandy's never written or sung a note in her whole goddam life. She's strictly there for show, for photo shoots and such. She does nothing, really. Still, I think it will probably have some impact, because we've kind of been viewed as inseparable, the 'electric space couple' and all that, but … it's hard to tell how much."

I look off.

"You know what makes me furious when I think about it now? Jerry whispering into my ear over and over, a million times he said it to me, how important Mandy was to my image, how critical she was to the whole thing, that she was an integral part, all while he was fucking her. _That_ was why he wanted her around. Christ, I could strangle him."

He smiles wryly at me.

"Or just break his kneecaps."

I can't smile. I look at him.

"Why are you asking this?"

He puffs, exhales, and shrugs.

"Because she scares me, to be honest. I'm a bit afraid of her power and how she will try to fuck with us."

I take his hand.

"She _will_ try to fuck with us, because fame is what she thrives on, that's what you have to remember. She's like a fucking python swallowing a rat, or something, and, with the divorce, she'll lose her fame, pretty quickly, I think, but she can't take away what we have, Curt, between us. And she can't take away our ability to write music and to play."

He looks at me.

"She _will_ try to fuck with me though, won't she? However she can? With my album? Disrupt things and stir shit up?"

Lord how I hate the woman, that she's made him fearful, that she's caused him even a moment's worry over what he considers the last chance his career will ever have.

"I won't let her, Curt. Not in a million years."


	41. The Thing  The Answer

He looks unsure.

"I'm only just realizing this now: I can have her barred from the premises. That's what I'll do. She won't have any business being there anyway, since we'll no longer be an entity."

He still looks worried.

"When are you gonna tell her? We're flying back Sunday night, and recording starts the next morning."

Fuck, with all that's been going on, I, stupidly, hadn't contemplated the specifics. Quickly I run through our schedule in my mind. Recording: 9am Monday, until whenever- likely midnite or later; 7 days a week for 2 weeks, possibly a few days longer, then immediately into mixing, mastering, the album artwork, a day of press, and straight out on tour. We'll barely have time to breathe.

"Maybe we should wait until after the recording, Brian."

My stomach clenches. I snap.

"I don't want to bloody wait! I want her out of the picture!"

"Christ, so do I, but what are you gonna do? Tell her Sunday night at midnite?"

I'm flustered and breathing. He continues. I'm suddenly annoyed at how calm he is.

"We can't have this big dramatic distraction going on during the recording. We should wait."

Waiting for the divorce, waiting for sex, it's amazing how nuts he is for bloody well _waiting_.

"Til when ?"

"I don't know. Maybe have your lawyer draw up the paperwork and hand it to her the day we leave for the road, or something."

I feel a stabbing pain in my head.

"I don't wanna wait," I whine.

"Brian, what does a coupla weeks matter?"

I raise my hand to press it into my temple.

I snap again.

"I want there to be a nice clean diving line! I don't want to arrive back there still bloody married to her!"

"What are you talking about? Even if you called her up right this second, that doesn't make you _divorced _! It's not instantaneous! It'll take months to iron everything out, probably. Besides, if you told her now, you _know_ what she'd do- she'd fly straight down here, sabotage the wedding and ruin everything. I'm not gonna stand by and let that happen. We'll wait til we leave for the tour."

I jerk my face towards him.

"What, so _you're_ gonna make decisions about _my_ divorce?"

"Why the fuck shouldn't I? I'm the one marrying you! And I'm thinking a fuck of a lot straighter about this right now than you are!"

My face is red and I'm panting from upset and emotional, but the sentiment is impossible to argue with. Even in my pissy, hissy-fit state, I can see that he's dead right- if she knows she's out of the game, if she knows her time as Mrs Space Queen is officially over, she'll stop at nothing to cause mayhem for us, and especially for Curt, even if I bar her from the premises. Our full concentration has to be on the album; it's too bloody important.

I slump back in place. Both our expressions soften. My heart plummets to think she's managed to come between us after all, to drive a wedge, if only temporarily.

I whisper.

"You're right. We'll wait. We can't allow anything to jeopardize the wedding, or the album. There's nothing more important." I reach for his hand. "Sorry."

"S'okay," he says softly taking it.

I look off, thinking.

"Of course, it means I'll have to pretend for a few weeks that I don't know the bomb that's about to be dropped. That should prove excruciating."

He squeezes my hand.

"You'll be really busy, Brian. You won't even have time to notice the pain."

I smile.

"There's that and the fact that … even if it's 2 in the morning, we'll get to go home together every night."

He looks unsure.

"She'll go to her place alone each time, her 'flat'? She won't expect you to go at all?"

I sigh.

"She can expect all she wants, I don't care. The most nauseating part will be right up front when she'll be putting on the biggest show. She'll meet us at Heathrow and–"

"–She's meeting us at the _AIRPORT_?"

I look at him.

"You're privileged not to know Mandy as well as I do. She wouldn't dare miss the opportunity to make a big fake reunion scene- she positively thrives on melodrama, however fabricated, and for once I don't even mean for the benefit of the press -there won't be any- I have special arrangements with Heathrow security. She'll throw her arms around me and kiss me and call me darling a dozen times in that phony accent–"

_"–Even with the phone call you guys just had?"_

"Oh, yes. She'll play that all is forgiven and that she missed me desperately and she'll babble on for 40 minutes about how busy she's been and all that she's been doing since I've been gone, as if she didn't know that I hate her guts." I look off, grinding my jaw. "Can you see why I wanna be divorced before we land?"

"Yes. What will _you_ do during all this, though?"

I take a big breath and sigh slowly.

"Ignore her as much as I can. Play along the rest of the time. I don't have much bloody choice."

He looks off, slightly dazed.

"Jesus …"

He looks back.

"What am _I_ supposed to do during all this?"

"Just keep your cool and let me do the talking for both of us. That's critical. I can handle her. Resist the temptation, whatever you do, Curt, to snap back at her and be drawn in. The second you do, she'll know your weak spots, and she'll play on them, relentlessly. So don't bloody let her know them. We need to focus 100% on the album; she'll make it her duty to fuck with that focus, and we can't let her win."

"What the fuck will she say to me?"

"What any insanely jealous wife would say to 'the other woman' were she to encounter her in the flesh, only 100 fold because it's _Mandy _and not some suburban housewife. She's smart as a whip, and devious and vindictive like no one I've ever known, with a tongue to match, as you've experienced."

He looks slightly freaked.

"Ya." His face sours. "_Christ_."

"What?"

His face dips down.

"I just … I just can't believe she and I ever … it sickens me."

My gut tightens. I look down as well.

"If only I'd fucking known."

"You couldn't have."

We ponder this a moment before he continues.

"You know what I wish right now? That I'd come in her mouth after all, if I'd had a bit of foresight. A little preemptive revenge."

My eyes raise to him.

"Revenge?"

"Ya."

"How do you mean?"

"Come on, Brian. You know what I'm saying. It's putrid stuff."

"What, come?"

He laughs.

"Yes. Don't pretend you don't think so."

"No, I know it is, but that's the point, to me."

"Huh? What point?"

I lay back beside him, with my head on his shoulder again.

"The point as to why swallowing matters. Have I never told you my theory on this?"

He laughs.

"Um, _no_!"

I lay a hand on his right pectoral, and run a delicate fingertip over the firm pink nipple.

"See, if come tasted good, if it tasted like chocolate or something, swallowing wouldn't matter, would it? Everyone would do it, everyone would _want_ to do it because of the taste, not _despite_ it, and it would lose it's specialness and importance and meaning."

"Okay." His voice tells me he's willing to keep listening, but he's finding it a bit fey.

"It's _because_ it tastes so bloody rancid, and has a particularly slimy, revolting texture –"

He slaps his thigh and interrupts me with a hoot of laughter.

"– that swallowing is a sign of devotion and supreme love and respect for your top, as the top. It comes straight out of his body, after all- his cock, for fuck's sake. Do you think I'm gonna _spit_ ? After _all_ the work I've done to get him there? My jaw aches, my neck is killing me, my knees are bruised, my tongue's about to swell up from the pressure. Not a chance! Swallowing is a bottom's reward. I'm _proud_ to swallow because it's honoring him, and his cock, and his _seed_, and in fact, each little sperm-seedling–."

"–Woah, okay," he bellows.

"–so letting it fill your mouth, and maybe spreading it around over your teeth with your tongue before gulping it down–"

"–Holy shit!–"

"–Or better yet swallowing it _really slowly_, in tiny gulps, to _really_ get a taste for just now nasty this particular batch is–"

His voice is an octave higher.

"–Alrighty! That's _quite_ an amazing fucking theory you got there, Brian! _Really_ heavy! I had no idea you had such reverence for come!" He laughs. "Absolutely no idea! You've obviously put an enormous amount of thought, and I dare say, research into this."

I grin.

"Not really. Thought yes, but research, no. Not … bucketloads, or anything."

"Bucketloads, now there's a thought."

"What?"

He grins wickedly.

"Bucketloads of come."

I squeal.

"Disgusting!"

"After everything you just told me about swallowing ?"

"But that's direct from the _source_! Not out of a bloody bucket!"

"I can't help it! I like the idea of keeping a supply on hand to drizzle it over somebody's back, in case of an emergency!"

We can barely speak for laughing.

"What _emergency_!"

"When it's too late- I've already come in their face and the plan had been to lick it off their ass!"

"Or, you've got his knees up next to his ears, or no, his head's hanging off the edge of the bed, and–"

"He shoots off but it's this teeny tiny squirt that's gone in one _lick_!"

We double over, hooting out loud, before eventually calming.

"I'll never forget when you licked me that time."

"Hmm?"

"The first time, our very first time together, in the room."

"Oh ya." He grins. "Fuck, you were fucking _oozing. _I was so turned on, I couldn't help myself. I had to know."

"How it tasted."

"Ya."

I turn my face to him.

"So you're every bit as perverted as me, then."

He kisses me.

"Yes."

I lay my head back down and run a soft hand across his chest.

"Curt?"

"Yep."

"Will you teach me how to deep throat?"

He laughs.

"Jesus Christ, what a question!"

"Well, in the context of our discussion …"

"I don't think you need to be taught, young man."

"Actually I do. And you're an expert, from what I hear. I'd really like to learn."

"Brian, it's not very pleasant."

"That's not the point."

He grins.

"Okay, the _point_, again."

I run a finger slowly up his sternum.

"Whatever would bring you pleasure is the point."

"You're already pretty fucking talented in the oral department. I have zero complaints there."

"But I'd like to take it a step further, up the ante, a bit. I really wanna know what it feels like to have you in my throat."

"Jesus!", he laughs.

"I think it would be amazing. Maybe you'll like it so much, we'll do it that way every time. I'd really like that."

"How do you know? You might hate it!"

I look at him, serious.

"You must be joking, Curt. I'm absolutely _obsessed_ with blowing you, so it seems like a perfectly natural progression."

He looks slightly distracted.

"Okay. We'll try it at some point. Not on the honeymoon though."

"Wedding night. Why not?"

He glances at me.

"Because it takes practice, Brian. And in the meantime, it involves a lot of … gagging and struggle and I don't think we want that that night."

"_You_ were successful the first time."

He fidgets.

"But that …," he sighs. "That was with Michael, who was a teacher in real life, and incredibly patient. I don't know that I could be that patient."

"You've been plenty patient when we've done oral."

"But that was … that was when I was passive. I was laying back; you were in charge. This would be the opposite. I'm afraid I'd get too excited, and …"

"And what?"

"I'd get carried away with myself and–"

I bellow.

"You say that like it's a bad thing! Curt, do you honestly think if you went nuts on me in that situation that there is a single chance in the entire world that that would be a negative for me? _No_! The whole thing, the whole idea of just _trying_ it, _particularly_ if it excited you to that degree, it would make me _insane_, don't you understand ? Even if I failed."

He ponders this a minute, then whispers absently.

"You wouldn't fail."

"Well it's decided, then."

He clears his throat.

"We're not supposed to talk about what we're doing that night."

"I know," I giggle and stroke his shoulder, whispering into it. "I can't wait, though."

"Brian, can we talk about something else? We're also breaking our sex-talk rule and it's starting to …"

I glance downward quickly. A particularly lovely lump is evident under the sheet.

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay." He clears his throat again, loudly, and forces his voice. "So … suits, today? What's the name of that shop?"

I can't take my eyes off the lump.

"I, I can't remember. It's right downtown."

Unfortunately, hard as I might try to not stare, the magical protuberance, combined with the general view I have down his body is riling me up. Those beautiful juicy pink nipples, that gorgeous stomach that I worship, those lovely scrumptious hip bones and from there … he disappears under the sheet. All I can picture now, is sliding my face beneath, but alas, considering where 'it' last was (though I'm loathe to think of any part of Curt as 'it'), he would, unfortunately, need to bathe, first.

As I'm mulling this all over, there I spy my hand- helpless to be stopped, sliding straight down his torso, heading for the center. He whips out the one from behind his head and grabs it, laughing breathily.

"Come on, Brian. We're back on the wagon again."

I play-fight him, attempting to twist out of his grip.

"I'm serious!" He shouts. "You had your grace period!"

Laughing, I flip over and straddle him, jerking my hand free and pressing both of his back against the mattress.

"Ya, but what you don't understand is, last night's pummeling combined with this morning's discussion has set me on fire- it's unleashed my inner _dragon_."

He laughs out loud despite himself. It's a supremely beautiful thing to behold, especially at close range.

"It's _your_ bloody fault. You gotta take what you've got coming to you, so to speak."

He squirms a bit, though really, it's all in play- he's stronger than me by a mile.

"Sure, just blame me for being the world's best fuck."

We laugh together, in each other's faces.

"Exactly! So you can't blame _me_ for wanting more!"

We continue to play-struggle. I'm beginning to enjoy this way too much. I lean forward to lick the side of his neck, giggle-whispering.

"If you don't stop squirming, Wild, I might have to tie you to a lamppost and have my way with you."

He laughs.

"I don't fucken think so."

I kiss his ear and speak warm breath into it.

"Okay well maybe just this headboard, then."

He stills. Has all the air just exited the room? Do I sense a sudden change in him? In the smell of his skin? I raise my head to inquire of his face.

His expression is burned into my memory: that of someone flustered, embarrassed, and trying to hide it, all while his eyes betray him.

I instantly release him from my grip.

Holy mother of bleeding Christ. It's here, it's arrived, out of the clear blue sky, without any warning whatsoever, landing right _plop_ in front of me.

The Thing. The Answer. The Erotic Mystery. Plain as the bloody day is long.

His words come flooding back:

"… straddles a line I'm incredibly uncomfortable with … embarrassing … nervous as hell … really fucking confused about it … why on earth I of all people would want it … I could easily see it turning negative … terrified of what it will pull up in me …"

Oh no. Oh mother of god, no. You must be joking. Not this. Please, Curt; don't ask it of me. Isn't it enough that I'm the official Deflower-er? Enough pressure? Enough terror? But now to ask me to turn the rescue fantasy on it's head and render you helpless, by my own hands …

I see you in distress, struggling, an agony intended to be loving and pure and intensely delicious, but in a split second, it takes a sickening twist in your mind, which mis-translate the whole bloody thing, and sends you hurtling backward, to the hospital, to the back alley, straight into a full bodied hyperventilating panic-flashback-freakout.

I see myself, crying, slapping you to shake you out of it, entirely incapable of bringing you round, our wedding night demolished.

His eyes shift away. He twists from beneath and mumbles of a need to shower. I watch him walk from the room, still on hands and knees.


	42. Earth Shattering, Totally

I move to sit on the edge of the bed, my hands flat on the mattress, looking down at the floor in disbelief. Yes, I've engaged in tie-ups before- it adds a bit of spice, that's all, but never in my wildest dreams, no pun intended, would I ever have considered this for Curt, because of his terrible history. It would, of _course_, have been out of the question.

I'm swaying a bit in place, trying to dissipate the tension rising in my gut. My hand slams into the mattress in frustration. He can't want this! He can't! He can't ask it of me! Too much responsibility! Too bloody risky, can you not see that, Curt ? And it's our wedding night for fuck's sake- the only one we'll ever have! I don't want it ruined! I don't want you further scarred by the reopening of your most painful wounds !

Did I mis-read you perhaps? Misunderstand you? What your eyes told you just now- could it have been anything else?

I run it, the whole thing through my mind again. Another quote of his surfaces.

"I have the feeling it could be blistering hot in the right hands."

Oh god. Oh fuck. I'm _not_ the right hands, Curt! Not! Please don't ask it of me.

In the background I hear the sounds of the shower. I stand and begin pacing, speaking out loud.

So, do I go and _ask_ him, just to be sure?

"So Curt, do you _actually_ wanna be tied down on your honeymoon ? Is _that_ the thing you were so embarrassed about you couldn't tell me all this time?"

"Yes! For fuck's sake yes! Think about it. Why else would I have frozen up like that, the instant you suggested it? Why else would I have had that telltale nervous/embarrassed/guilty look in my eyes?"

"I don't know! I don't know! This conversation is just a figment of my imagination anyway, so I'm still not sure!"

"No. Stop kidding yourself. You're sure. You just don't want it to be true, that's all, cuz it scares the shit out of you. As if you have any right to be scared when it's _me_ with the history. Stop being selfish."

"Aarrrgghhhhhh!"

I make my way over to the shower, not knowing what to do or think. Part of me still wants to bloody well ask. Part of me says it's out of the question- it will embarrass him and spoil it all – we both agreed we want it fresh and spontaneous. I decide I'll decide when I get to the loo door. Maybe I'll just slip in, sit quietly on the chair, undetected, and the correct answer will fall magically into my lap- for some reason I'm sure I'll be able to tell when I see him.

I approach the door. The water is still going. I open it slowly, maybe an inch or two, just enough to see.

There he is through the glass, facing away, hair swept back and plastered to him, the remnants of soapy shampoo cascading down that broad back, over those shapely buttocks, down those tanned thighs.

Phew, I shouldn't be doing this.

Answer, where are you? Hurry up!

No. Stop. Close the bloody door. Don't do this. He'll see. He'll be mad and say I'm spying.

No he won't. He'll laugh. He'll think it's funny.

He turns and raises an arm, running the lucky bar of soap underneath it, straight down that gorgeous side/torso muscle that leads to his hip, up and across abs and chest and then down into the bewitching honey colored thatch of curls at the center.

I mean _really_.

_Such_ a beautiful form the lad possesses. One could _so_ easily stand here and masturbate, and get away with it … if one weren't trying so bloody desperately to be good.

I push the thought away. Another one, quite vivid, instantly surfaces: Curt, naked and prone, wrists bound over his head, slithering erotically on the mattress, pleading under his breath, as his body, his control, is taken from him, and relinquished, entrusted, to me.

Trust. That's what he has in me. He's willing to risk a revisit to awful places … but only because he trusts that he'll be safe, and that I can turn it around for him.

Wow.

I mean … he knows it's a risk, he's even admitted to actually feeling terror at the prospect, and yet … he's put his faith in love, here. That's really what we're talking about. He's put his faith and hope … in me.

So I can't. I can't refuse him, if this is truly what he wants, can I ? If I've been blessed with this potential opportunity to heal old, terrible wounds? It wouldn't be selfish, it would be monstrous and cruel. Worst case scenario: I take out the thigh highs that have been lying in the lowest drawer all this time, and bring them to his wrists, and … he bursts out laughing. I'll be red-faced, but the moment will pass, and perhaps he'll even take them and tie _me_ up, as "punishment" for jumping to such preposterous conclusions. A tastier prospect I cannot imagine.

Of course, the _worst_ wost case scenario is that we proceed with the delicious game, and mid-way through, it triggers harrowing, unspeakable memories, and …

I take a deep breath. We will have to keep the lines of communication wide open, then. There's simply no other way.

I peer in at him. He's cleaning himself, running soapy hands over his cock and balls.

I shut my eyes and allow a best case scenario to flood my brain: his sweaty form, writhing and twisting slowly, pulling against the restraints as his chest heaves, as his breath stutters forth, as his head turns and rises and drops in quiet agony, as, for long, drawn out minutes, I envelop that immaculate, velvet smooth cock with my lips, repeatedly bringing him to the edge and backing away, the natural tension and frustration building beautifully, so beautifully in him, fed and nourished and aggravated by the bindings, by his repeated inability to, as the top, gain control. When, at the last possible second, at the moment he can least bear it, I pull off, grab his face and take him hard, ferociously by mouth, he goes to grab me back, forgetting once again that he can't, that he's at my mercy, that's he's been made vulnerable and laid out for me, for my use, for my pleasure, to be kissed and teased and penetrated, to be eaten, and licked and inhaled and taken advantage of in his prone state, at a pace of my choosing, at a pace expressly designed for his complete sexual torment … and eventual seismic implosion.

In the middle of this demonically sensual scenario, a voice suddenly snaps.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

My eyes fly open. I've been caught. He's stepped out of the shower and is toweling off.

"Um, nothing. Nothing," I mutter, face flushing, head swimming, barely able to speak.

"Were you spying on me?"

"No, I just …"

"You just what?"

"Oh Curt,"

"What?"

"It … it didn't start out that way, I just wanted to ask you … I was pondering something and–"

His eyes drop.

"–Ya, I can see that."

Mine follow. Oh my. I'm standing here naked, and quite hard.

"Sorry," I manage to eek out.

"You bastard," he laughs as he wraps the towel round his waist and tucks it in. "You better step in here and turn on the cold."

I approach, watching the floor in shame, face beet red.

"So what were you gonna ask me?"

"I-I … don't remember. Sorry, I really wasn't spying, Curt, I just …"

"It's okay. Not a big deal. I'll be downstairs."

He smiles wryly.

"Don't beat off."

"I won't!"

He laughs sweetly and kisses me on the forehead.

"I know."

Inside the shower I turn the setting on it's coldest, strongest spray, and douse myself, somehow managing not to scream out in agony as the problem is just about instantly obliterated.

* * *

><p>After breakfast we walk to town for our suits. Our destination is the town's only men's formalwear shop, Pedro of Ibiza, which comes highly recommended by Manuel, who is supposed to have put in a good word for us.<p>

It's a somewhat overcast day, and looks to be threatening rain, but I'm so giddy I don't care, in fact I'm floating on a cloud as I move down the sidewalk, for we are going off to buy … our bloody_ wedding attire !_

Unable to help myself, I gaze at him, grinning like a dufus.

"This is …" My brain trips, fogged up from giddiness-overload.

He laughs.

"What?"

I burst out into a giggle.

"So _exciting_! I'm just so beside myself about what we're about to do here, Curt. It's all becoming real."

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

"I know, my baby. It's pretty fucking cool."

"It just seems to have come together so fast."

"Ya, but a part of me wants it to hurry up and be here, already. It feels like a hundred years since we decided."

I grin at him.

"Since you proposed."

He grins back. He laughs.

"Yes. "

"I'll never forget that moment as long as I live, of course. It came completely out of the blue. I thought you were dehydrated."

We laugh.

"Ya, you actually put your hand on my forehead and told me that. You said I hadn't had enough fluids."

More laughter.

"Well, we'd been riding around in the sun all that day."

"And we went for that hike up the mountain."

I sigh.

"We've done and seen so many amazing things since we've been here, my love."

"I know. Overall I'd say my trip to Spain has been pretty fucking … what's the word for it? Earth shattering. Totally." He looks at me. "Do you ever wonder, Brian, I mean … what would've happened had you, like, not walked into the room after me that time, at the orgy?"

I laugh.

"You're joking, right? There was no possible way I _couldn't_ have !"

"But you could've been, y'know, in fact as I recall, I think you were a bit … _busy_."

"No, well … it may have looked that way, but … don't think I hadn't had my eye on you from the second you'd walked in. It was that way whenever we were in a room together- no matter how preoccupied I tried to make myself look, believe me, I was completely focused on _you_."

He laughs.

"You hid it well."

"Well, I knew we had this … voltage between us, but I mean, at the same time, I couldn't be entirely sure- I've been wrong about those things before, but that night, I mean, there was no two ways about it. You just pulled me in after you, Curt, with that look you gave me. Phew! There was absolutely this … super intense astro-magnetic field sucking me straight in there."

He winces softly.

"Okay …"

"What?"

"Try not to mention that word."

"What word?"

"_Sucking_."

We burst out laughing.

"No, but," he continues, "had you not followed me in there, we would have hooked up eventually, right?"

"Of course! You don't doubt that, do you? It had been building and building and it just exploded that night, but had it not been then, it would have been soon afterwards. There was absolutely no stopping it."

"Ya, it was like a total force of nature. Fucking avalanche."

"For me it was more like, I don't know … a beautiful hurricane. I had absolutely no control over it." I grin. "It completely took hold of me from the first moment I laid eyes on you."

"It's sort of funny, y'know? Little did I know you were in the crowd that night- when you first saw me. I mean, it's just totally wild to think that in that crowd of people hissing and throwing bottles and kicking us off stage, was a person who …"

"… Was absolutely smitten."

We laugh. He finishes his thought.

"No, I mean … The person who would completely change _everything_, and just become … the total, y'know, love of my life."

My heart catapults nearly out of my chest. I stop. I turn to him, gushing, weak of voice, and knee.

"Did you really just say that?"

He smiles.

"Yes."

My face flushes. I'm incapable of speech. He whispers.

"You're surprised?"

"Well … but … " I scramble for words, "I guess … I guess, I mean, you've had a few relationships, and, I mean … Michael- I guess I thought if anyone, Michael …"

"What Michael and I had was amazing and life altering for me, but what we have is better, y'know, for a hundred reasons, first of which is, we're grown men, we're equals, we're partners, and we actually have a future together- you're not gonna go and off yourself on me."

"No, I'm not."

"And we don't have this time-bomb ticking away beneath us like he and I had, that it was illegal, that people would find out, all that bullshit."

"No, thank god." I smile. "In fact, the world is _celebrating_ us being together. We're a _very_ hot item."

We laugh.

"It's amazing what a difference a few years can make," he reflects.

I nod.

"Yep."

We walk on in silence a few moments before he speaks.

"You know what else, Brian? Now that I think of it, you've actually had a _lot_ more of my shit to deal with than Micheal did, do you realize that? And you've never flinched. Not once. That completely blows my mind. Just in the short time we've known eachother, you've helped me make peace with some of the absolute worst of it, you know? That's just absolutely _huge_- incalculable."

My heart floats on air.

"I can't tell you what it feels like to hear you say that. It's my old rescue fantasy come to life."

He nods.

"Oh, I completely feel rescued, Brian."

I'm beaming like the sun, the moon and the stars. He continues.

"There's no question about that." He laughs. "Rescued and resurrected."

I gush and turn my pink face into his shoulder.

"Stop. I'm gonna bloody well faint from happiness."

He laughs. He turns my head and kisses me softly. When he leans back, my eyes remain shut, completely intoxicated by the moment. He laughs harder. He has to pull me along before I'll move.

"Come on, we got _shit_ to do."

"Okay," I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to act normal. "So, what do we want again? What are we looking for?"

"White suits. Isn't that what we talked about? Two Virgins."

Damn. I'd sort of hoped he'd cooled on the idea, as … I haven't wanted to tell him _I've_ been cooling on it.

"Well … okay but … why don't we see what they have?"

He looks at me. I feel myself squirming already.

"I mean … in some ways, … isn't white a bit, I don't know … corny?"

"Corny? It's tradition. I thought you were cool with it."

Yes, I think to myself, it is tradition- for the _bride_, and … yes, I had originally been cool with it, but lately … The virgin thing is a beautiful, and entirely private and precious secret between Curt and I, and well … Jim. Do we really need to publicly hint at it?

"But there are a lot of wedding traditions, Curt- really beautiful, old fashioned ones with plenty of history and meaning to them. White is more of a modern thing, really."

"But, I mean," He's a bit flustered. "You know why I want white."

I squeeze his hand.

"Of course, my love. But … I'm just saying, … let's see what they have. You might fall in love with something else."

"You don't wanna wear white."

He's absolutely stuck on it.

We stop.

"Curt, I just …"

I sigh. I look at him. His face is that of a wounded puppy dog. I raise my hand and caress his cheek.

"Oh my angel, it's just that … I mean …" The sparkle in his eyes has dimmed. "Oh my darling, if it means that much to you …"

"Well … I guess … I don't know, it's just that … I've been picturing us in white … " He sighs. "I know it's … I mean … I guess it's just … the virgin thing … that whole idea is …." He blurts, exasperated. "I can't help it. Anything even remotely relating to it is pretty fucking, y'know, … powerful to me."

I shrink two feet. Of course it is! What kind of horrible cad can I be?

"But, y'know," he continues, "you're right. We'll look at what they have. I mean, who knows? They might be outta white suits."

Oh god, I want to fall at his feet. How can there be any excuse for me! It means the world to him! The symbolism, the beauty, the healing that it represents! I'm gonna _deny_ him this ? Horrid selfish twat!

I take his other hand and look at him.

"We'll get white. If we have to special order it from Madrid, or … bloody _New York_, we'll do it."

He shrugs.

"We'll see what they have, Brian."

"No, we won't see what they have. If they don't have what we want, we'll go someplace else, or … we'll have suits made. Two white suits."

He brightens. His face splits into a smile so pure and wide it could heal the sick. My heart, as usual, skips several beats. I slide my hand down his cheek.

"Did anybody ever tell you you're the most radiantly beautiful creature that ever walked this earth?"

He laughs.

"Ya, _you_- about every other day!"

He pulls me along to the store.


	43. The Great Intangible Wonder

The shop at first glance is not what I'd expected, being rather old looking, however it seems neat and well stocked. Almost immediately we are greeted by a distinguished balding older gentleman in a 3 piece suit who it turns out is Pedro himself.

"Hello sir," I address him in Spanish, "we are friends of Manuel's family."

He nods his head and smiles, speaking Spanish back to me.

"Yes, yes, I've been expecting you! You must be Brian! Welcome to my shop! We will be very pleased to work with friends of Manuel's. We provided him with his own wedding attire, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes. He speaks the world of you."

"I am pleased. I personally fit him myself, I can still remember the day as if it were yesterday. He wore a size …"

As we continue our niceties, Curt, looking back and forth between Pedro and I, quickly grows bored with this gibberish he does not understand, and wanders off. Meanwhile Pedro takes me by the elbow and guides me towards a group of men's black tuxedos complete with red cumberbuns- not something I would dream of wearing even on my death bed.

"Um, yes, very nice, however I think we're looking for something more on the white side."

"White, senor?"

"Yes, something … more of a classic look, traditional, but white. Has to be white."

"Senor, I must say, this is a fairly unusual request for men's wedding attire, but let me see what I may have for you." He gestures. "Will you please follow me?"

I walk forward and glance back at Curt, who is on the other end of the shop perusing a mannequin perched high on a stand, dressed to the nines.

* * *

><p>Several minutes later, I have a suit draped over my forearm and am shuttled into the dressing room by Pedro. I want Curt in here with me, dammit, but have somehow lost track of him. Eventually, I hear his voice …<p>

"Okay, cool, thanks. I got it."

… but can't see him as the door is too tall.

"Curt," I say as I pull on my white linen trousers, "where have you been?"

I hear the door opposite me shut.

"Just lookin' around out front. I found somethin' I'm tryin' on."

I button up the jacket and turn in the mirror. I really like what I see.

"You did? So did I. It's a really nice. All white. Come look."

I can hear him fiddling and moving around.

"Wait, not yet. I wanna try this thing first."

"What is it?"

"It's a … suit."

"I know it's a suit, Curt. What's it like?"

"I don't … I don't know yet. Just … gimme a minute here. I'm still tryin' to … figure it out."

I mill about, holding another jacket up against me as well as a few different ties. I'm pleased to find I was dead wrong about the white- it totally works. In fact, it's smashing. I picture it, the two of us at the alter. The alter! Hand in hand in glowing white, looking like a pair of celestial angels. It really just … makes it. It's stunning, dapper, crisp, clean, pure, smart, even. And as it relates to our honeymoon, extraordinarly sweet, and romantic. The problem I had with this was …?

"Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," I hear him spit from the opposite stall.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I just can't figure out this … I can't fucking figure it out!"

What is he talking about?

"Can't figure what out?" Then it hits me: he has no idea how to tie a tie. The only other time he's ever worn one was on our flight over here two weeks ago, our 'reverse drag' costume, and I had to put it on for him. I exit the dressing room. "Remember, I showed you that time? You fold it underneath, and then come through from behind …" I open his door and … freeze. I blink, disbelieving my own eyes. He's only gone and outfitted himself in … my god, my sweet christ, it's bloody formal morning wear- an English gentleman's traditional wedding suit- charcoal grey jacket with tails … tails ! Lighter grey vest underneath, white, high-collared shirt beneath that … an absolutely staggering vision, like a bloody prince at a coronation.

He's standing in the mirror, oblivious, frustrated, fighting with the poofy striped tie.

"How does this fucking thing _work_ ? !"

I say nothing. I approach and turn his shoulder to face me, reach and begin adjusting it for him. I feel breathless. Without looking, I then notice … from the waist up, it's as though he's walked straight in from Wuthering Heights. From the waist down … his ratty jeans lay unzipped and open, golden curls visible, having gone, yet again, without underwear.

I force a frown and whisper.

"_Curt_ …"

He shrugs.

"Forgot."

I finish the tie, somehow managing to keep from grinning, and step back …

Oh … my … _god_, it's perfect.

… trying to maintain the best poker face I can …

_Oh my GOD, it's PERFECT ! ! !_

… wanting so desperately to jump straight up and down in place … but force myself to remain calm. He may hate it, after all. He may have only been trying it out of sheer curiosity, as a gag, as a hoot, with no intentions otherwise; no matter that it is, indeed perfect, – it's not bloody white, after all.

I reach and unclip the striped grey trousers from the hanger next to him.

"Now these."

I stand back further.

He begins pushing his jeans down but at the last second turns away from me, hiding himself. I smile. If he thinks giving me a view of that lovely delectable fresh round bottom is somehow disappointing …

Quickly he suits up, zips up and turns back toward the mirror.

_Oh god … it's … it's sheer bloody magic._

He looks at himself sideways, full on, standing away, looking over his shoulder, and then back again, face expressionless. I catch my reflection, and goddammit … there I am for all the world to see, gushing out into a huge, stupid, giddy-idiot grin.

I throw a hand up in feeble attempt to cover my mouth, forcing my face into a neutral, disinterested position, hoping he didn't see.

He says nothing for what feels like ten minutes, running a hand down the front lapel and across one shoulder, before speaking calmly.

"How's it look?"

I answer flatly, bored …

"It's, ah, … it's okay,"

… afraid to dive in, convinced he will at any moment nix the whole idea with a laugh or a shrug.

He spies my outfit for the first time.

"That's a great suit. Fits perfect. Looks beautiful."

I try not to shake my head too violently.

_"No it doesn't,_ er, I mean … um, it's um … I'm not crazy about it, to be honest."

Curt, seemingly ignoring me, turns and lifts something up off the bench I hadn't noticed before. He places it on his head, and … that's it- I absolutely lose it.

"Oh my god a _TOP HAT !"_ I begin babbling frantically. "Curt, _oh god_ …" I stammer, not able to get the words out quick enough … "y-you look like a _GOD_ ! You have _no idea how handsome you look!_ It's absolutely _perfect! The whole thing!_ Traditional, and romantic and _so bloody hot!_ Please ! Let's buy it! You _can't say no!_ You look _incredible_ ! You look like … Cary Grant! No! Laurence _Olivier_ ! No ! _Fred Astaire!–"_

"–Brian," he laughs, "shut up for a second, willya? I like it too."

_"You do ? !_ Oh, thank god."

"Ya. Shit, I'm not that blind to what works, fashion-wise, am I?"

"But … you go out of the house in smelly wrinkled, three day old trousers all the time !"

He laughs. I speak calmly, earnestly.

"And, it's not white, my love."

He sighs. He is suddenly serious. He whispers.

"I know."

He pulls me to stand next to him, facing the mirror. We examine eachother's suits, though really, there is no contest. Our eyes travel and inspect, and finally meet in the reflection. Slow grins spread across our faces. He takes my hand. He whispers to me in Spanish; pretty much the only phrase he's mastered …

"Estamos consiguiendo casados." ("We're getting married.")

My knees buckle. I moan-giggle, and blush like a schoolgirl.

"Yes, we are, my love."

We lean. We brush cheeks. I press my body weight into his. Seconds later we are moving … slowly, softly, silently, in place. It takes a moment before it clicks … my god … my sweet jesus, for the very first time in our lives, we are, here under the harsh flourescent lights of Spanish men's fitting room … slow dancing …

_Oh holy mother of god …_

The water shoots to my eyes. I close them, and, there can be no truer word for it, positively melt into his shoulder, almost not able to bear it as we sway to some gorgeous, silent melody in our heads. The look on my face, were I at all capable of cracking open a lid to follow us in the mirror, would say it all … I'm, quite simply, _glowing_ … _so_ content, so _completely_ at peace, so blissfully happy to be alive, that I simultaneously want it never to end … and want it all to end here. I want this to be the last moment of my life.

He raises a hand to my face. The swaying slows and then stops. Our lips hover for long seconds, meet, and then gently close over one another, sending my heart careening. I open my mouth to him. I want to tell him with this kiss … that it's okay if I cease to exist, that I will give up my life for him, right this second, so long as he's near.

I move to bury my fingers in the soft thick strands of his hair, totally bloody forgetting … and manage to knock the top hat clear off his head, sending it tumbling to the floor.

I throw a hand over my mouth.

_"Oh!"_

Curt laughs and reaches for it, dusting it off and putting it back on.

"It's okay. It's not hurt."

From the other side of the door, Pedro speaks.

"Gentleman, are you alright in there?

"Er, yes!" I blurt shakily. "We're fine. We're ecstatic with what we've found, in fact!"

"Excellent!"

"We'll be right out."

"There is no hurry, gentlemen. Please take your time," he responds, before walking away.

We smile. My right hand softly cups and strokes his face. My heart is bursting. I whisper.

"If you knew how much I loved you right now, you might be frightened."

He laughs. He whispers back.

"I could say the same thing."

We kiss softly, sweetly, at length, before pulling back.

"We'd better …" I offer.

"Ya," he agrees.

I look down and reach out a hand to feel the material of his coat.

"It really is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Curt. And it's absolutely perfect, you realize- it's traditional, it's flat out stunning, and really, really cool, all at once. Where did you spot it?"

"I don't know, I just wandered over and there it was. My eyes just sorta fell on it."

I squeeze his hand.

"You're okay with it not being white, though?'"

He sighs. He shrugs.

"I guess I was pretty stuck on the idea, but … I think it turns out that maybe this is exactly what we should've had all along. It was waiting for us, y'know? It's right for us. It's just so fucking … classy and, like timeless, I guess, and like you said, cool and …" He laughs, looking down at himself, "I don't know, it just kicks some major fucking ass, I mean, is there any question about that?"

I smile.

_"No."_

"And, y'know, the virgin thing- that's still totally real."

I squeeze his hand.

"Of course it is, my love."

"I guess maybe we don't need symbols for it."

"No, we don't."

He grins. He turns to spy himself in the mirror.

"You really think I look like Cary Grant?"

* * *

><p>On the walk home, we carry our suits in long paper bags over our shoulders, with matching box hats at our sides, and don't say much. It feels in ways like a giant step, a giant threshhold has been crossed and we're each inside of our heads as we move up the sidewalk.<p>

Myself, it's still with me, the emotion of the morning, and so I find myself pondering … love, of course … and the realization that whatever I might have imagined love to be, _before_, (everything for me now of course being Before or After Curt), whatever I thought that word meant … was clearly a pale and lifeless imitation of the real thing.

Ponder, ponder …

Love … this thing that we can't see, that makes us feel such extraordinary things, this thing we define ourselves by and validate ourselves with, that make us see things in ourselves, in another, that no one else can … What is it? How do we know it's real? What makes it something that consumes us so? That people live and die for? Etc.

Too many bloody questions. Let's simplify this.

What is it?

Okay, for me … I just know it's … something extraordinarly warm and good … it lays me flat and spreads through my system like a beautiful healing virus and … okay, slow down there … it makes me … alright, here it is: it's made me think about the well being of someone other than myself, for a change. It's made me put _him_ and _his_ needs, before _me_, and _mine_. Definitely a new thing, that. So, it, love, I guess, is unselfish.

Okay, nice. What else?

Generous, that word pops into my head. It's true that I have this constant insatiable yearning to give of myself, to offer up everything I have, my heart, completely, my soul, every moment of my time for the rest of my life. And throw in all of my wordly possessions- give them all away, for they have truly become meaningless in the face of the Great Intangible Wonder.

Okay …

Love is … patient. It trusts that you'll stop being so bloody boneheaded, so bloody fucking petty and bratty, and eventually work your way through this fight that you're having, inside of yourself, or between the two of you, and come out the other side.

Love is … healing. As is well known. The great healer, in fact. No need to argue that point.

Okay, now … how do I know it's real in _this_ case ?

Because … well shit, it's obvious, isn't it? I'm tingling all the time! I'm clearly _irradiated_- overcome and overwhelmed by and with him; his scent, the warm, rough texture of his voice …

The images tumble forward. …

the moist sheen of his skin after an ocean dip,

the breeze wafting through his hair soon afterwards,

the rays of the sunset warming and coloring his flesh,

the mistiness in his eyes the next morning, before they fully awaken,

that soft sweet tumbling laugh, bouncing off the shower tiles,

the crumbs that fly from his lips at the breakfast table,

the broad expanse of clear smooth back, shoulder blades jutting as he's splayed out, face down on the mattress, naked, vulnerable, asleep …

So again, how do I know it's real?

How can it not be! It's … embedded in my pores, it's in my saliva, it's imprinted in the tissues of my flesh.

Yes! Okay.

From there, it is transferred and transmitted to my fingertips when I caress him, to my arms when I hold him, to my lips when I kiss him … my tongue when I move down his body–

Lovemaking. People use the term interchangeably with 'sex', but since the dawn of Curt, for the first time ever, I've realized the extraordinarily vast difference there.

'Sex' is a physical release, a biological need, a motor response.

Lovemaking is … Well, lovemaking is to sex what a sunset's dazzlingly warm, lifegiving hues across the horizon are to … a light bulb. Yes, we need light bulbs, but … sunsets wow and silence us and inspire and feed our very spirits and souls. Lovemaking is the gods speaking to us, through us. It is the physical embodiment, the fruition and achievement of the highest part of our nature. I, now, really believe and for the first time _understand_ that.

As is well known, one can have sex without love, all day long in fact, (as I can well attest), but without love, freely given and honestly felt, one can never attain the truth and beauty and reward that is lovemaking.

And for me there is no more powerful feeling in this world, than the love I feel, particularly in these moments, for Curt. It is, in fact, too much for my soul to contain, too much to embody inside of the small space I occupy; it demands to be given a voice, to take shape, to be _realized_; it must be given life, or it will stagnate, and die.

We've reached the house. I'm spacy, all a flutter. I don't want to interrupt the flow. I don't want to speak or try to act normally. I want to drown in these feelings, to honor them in beautiful, moving ways.

* * *

><p>We walk in the kitchen door. He sprints up the steps with both of our suits, to hang them properly in the bedroom's walk-in closet, then descends the stairs. I sit at the table, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, still inside of myself.<p>

He approaches. The silence has continued, and it's begun to concern him.

"What's wrong ?"

He sits by me. I take his hand and look at him earnestly.

"I'm just .. struggling a bit, right now."

"With what?"

"Just … feelings."

A worried look shoots across his face. We've just picked up our wedding suits. Am I having second thoughts?

"What feelings?"

I sigh.

"Curt, I … I just … love you so much … I can't help it. I really want … I just really want more than anything right now to make love to you."

He looks off, exasperated.

"I mean," I continue, "I'm not saying we–

"–Okay, so … after all that talk about the virgin thing, you're horny."

"No," I scramble, semi-crushed, "It's not about being horny. It's … it's just a measure of how deeply I love you." I touch my chest. "That's a totally new thing for me, you have to understand. I see lovemaking in completely new terms since I've known you. It's not screwing. It's the most beautiful thing in the world."

He hasn't met my gaze. I continue, not knowing where I'm going, letting my heart speak.

"Sometimes these feelings- sometimes they can't be controlled, as much as I try, and as much as I understand and agree with why we're controlling them. But sometimes it just seems wrong to do that, my angel. Because they are right and natural and …" I touch his face, "you're _everything_ to me, so it only makes sense–"

He looks at me. His voice is a bit terse.

"–I understand that it makes sense. It's not like I don't struggle with it every minute I'm with you, but we're committed to this. We agreed. Let's not lose sight of the reason for it."

I'm flooded with guilt. I touch his hand.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just … it's just a bit … overwhelming at times, and so it can be extremely hard at times to explain to myself, to remind myself of why we can't just … and I'm not saying we should–"

His face flushes.

"–See, you have the luxury, Brian, of not having these memories in your head, these rotten fuckin' memories, y'know? I want to start over, with you. You're the person I've chosen to do that with. This is about reclaiming my past, and y'know, I mean …"

He stands. He drops my hand. He snaps.

"Why do I have to explain this to you? ! You _know_ why!"

I reach for his hand. I speak calmly.

"Oh, please don't be angry with me, my darling. I was just being honest with my feelings. It doesn't mean I want us to throw in the towel. It doesn't. It's just … it's just my eagerness to hold you and be close to you and bring you pleasure and joy, that's all."

After a beat he sits down again. I continue, slightly wounded, but reassured.

"I want a wedding night with you, too, you know." I grin slightly. "And believe me, I'm honored to be the person you've chosen for that."

He waves his hand, a bit embarrassed.

"I didn't mean that how it sounded."

I laugh. I touch his face.

"I know, my angel."

I whisper.

"Let's forget this, okay?"

I caress his cheek, admiring, for the millionth time, the lovely delicious hints of blonde stubble.

"Are you hungry, my sweet?"

He nods, barely.

"We'll eat, then," I offer.

His frown remains.

I cup his jaw.

"What is it, my love? You're still mad at me?"

He looks down, fingering the salt shaker.

"No. It's just … now _I'm_ sorta horny."

I bite my lip and coo.

"I'm so sorry. It's my fault."

"Yes, it is," he pouts.

I straighten. I stand.

"Well, we'll eat a big fat lunch, then; put it right out of our minds."

"Maybe we should eat in bed."

"_No_," I laugh.

I move to the fridge.

"I'll make your _faaaavorite_."

He looks up. His face brightens.

"Extra sloppy joes?"

I nod.

"With lumpy mashed potatoes and ketchup?"

I laugh.

"_Yes_."


	44. The Kids In the Room

After lunch we retire outdoors, to the porch swing. The scene is the usual combination of stunning and placid- salt air wafting up toward us, seagulls diving and squawking, waves running softly up the sand making that hypnotic 'woosh' sound.

Curt lays sideways, facing the beach, his head on a small pillow in my lap, smoking away, lost in his own thoughts. After a lively conversation during lunch, we are back to silence. It's one of the things I find so refreshing about being with him; we can be quiet together for long stretches, without it being awkward or uncomfortable.

I run my hands gently through his hair, combing it with my fingers. It's something he loves, something that calms and soothes him, being petted, but not nearly as much as it does me. Touching him as he lays in my lap, belly full, peaceful and content, sucking on a cig- much as I may not like the latter, is pretty much the sum total of why I'm on this earth. He, my man, my lover, my best friend and confidante, my soon to be husband, feels safe here, with me, safe to be himself, to have his heart laid open. If I have succeeded in bringing him just these few things, these small bits of stillness and tranquility, it would be all I could ask for in life.

I continue, rhythmically running splayed fingers upward through the soft, dense strands of hair, over the crown of his head and back again, gently massaging and kneading his scalp on the way.

He speaks. His voice is far off.

"Gonna fall asleep if you keep doin' that."

I grin.

"Please do."

"I'm not kidding."

"Neither am I. Just give me your cig first. I don't want you burning the house down."

He reaches a hand behind him, and I take it, stubbing it out in the ashtray next to us. As I resume the petting, sure enough, within a minute or so, he's out.

I remove my hand from his head, and lay it softly on his shoulder. I whisper to myself.

"_My darling boy."_

As the realization of what has happened spreads through my system (_I've_ _lulled him to sleep in my lap_ !) … I have the following reactions:

Face: beaming.

Eyes: welling.

Heart: bursting.

Brain: bouncing to and fro.

Mothering/doting instincts, which could scarcely have painted a sweeter, more satisfying picture:

_singing._

I sit contentedly, still as can be, trying not to breathe or move. At some point several minutes along, he stirs, and awakens.

I lean forward, and kiss his cheek.

"How long was I out?" he asks, groggily.

"Not long. Did you dream?"

"Dunno."

He stretches and yawns and turns himself so that his body lays upright, head still in my lap. He reaches for and plants the ashtray on the center of his belly, lights a new smoke, takes a drag, and turns his head away to exhale. His voice is warm.

"Brian."

"Mm?"

"When did you first realize you were in love with me?"

I laugh.

"Wow. Was that what you were thinking about all that time before you fell asleep?"

He shrugs. He smiles.

"I'm just curious."

I lay a hand on his chest.

"Well, okay, first off, are you talking when I first knew I was _in_ love with you, or that I _loved_ you?"

"There's a difference?"

"Yes, of course!"

We laugh together. It's lovely.

"I didn't know this."

"Ya, I mean, think about it, Curt. You love your friend Jim, but you're not _in_ _love_ with him."

"No. True." He grins crooked. "So I guess you can only be in love with the person you're _in love_ with? This is complicated!"

"No it's not. It's simple. To me, here's the timeline: you click with the person at first, then you start to like them a lot and have feelings for them, or well, those two can be simultaneous."

He nods.

"Then you feel yourself starting to like them so much that you think about them all the time, you obsess over them, you experience a sort of all out bewitching, um, _besottery_–"

He laughs.

"Bewitching _what_ ?"

I continue, ignoring him.

"–which then turns pretty quickly into love, and then _that_ takes you over and propels you forward until you fall _in_ love with them- you want to be with them so bad it hurts, they're the first person you want to tell important things to, that you want to tell _everything_ to, you wanna spill your heart and soul and guts to; you die when they're in pain, you're blissful and giddy when they're happy, when they're just in the room with you, etc. etc."

I grin.

"It's an utterly hopeless condition, being in love."

He smiles. He stubs out his cig and turns to place the ashtray beneath him, on the floor. He returns, laying face up in my lap, elbow bent behind his head.

"So when did you first know you felt that way?"

I shrug.

"How the fuck should I know?"

His eyes widen for a moment before he realizes I'm kidding.

We laugh.

"Okay, okay. I remember the actual moment–".

"–No you don't," he chortles.

"Yes I do, I'm not kidding! I pretty much do, of when I first had strong feelings for you, or at least when I was first aware they were starting to develop for real- love feelings. It was when we went to the carnival in London that time."

"It was _then_ that you knew? Come on! That was like the first coupla days!"

"I know, Curt, but it's true. We had just gotten off one of the rides, do you remember? The one where we were mouthing that Lou Reed song to eachother."

He smiles.

"Ya."

"It was warm and breezy out, and I remember the wind blowing through your hair, which was the first time I really took notice of it."

"What, my hair?"

"Yes. It was calling to me. The color and the softness of it and how it fell around your face. Magnificent. I was completely dazzled."

He laughs.

"Come on, it's a fucking filthy mess."

I nod quickly.

"Yes, but therein lies the appeal. Coiffed hair is totally, totally wrong and unmale."

He bursts out.

"Says the king of glam rock!"

"I'm serious! The fact that you leave your hair wild and natural … and that _color_ ! Fantastic! Bloody dream come true!"

"Okay, okay, continue what you were saying. That night, the carvinal."

"Yes … I remember we were walking away, and it was a gorgeous night out, remember?"

He looks off.

"Ya, the stars were like totally fucking nuts. I'd never seen anything like it before."

"And you were telling me about Michigan,"

"Ya. That's right."

"… and go-cart rides when you were a tiny boy, and the carnival in the next town during summertime, and you were just waxing so poetic about it. The language you used was just so–"

"–Colorful–"

I laugh.

"–No. It was … it just painted the picture so beautifully. It totally brought me into the scene along with you- I could smell the smells, the diesel fuel running the rides, incredibly vivid and alive and wonderful. It was tremendously romantic, what you were saying."

He shrugs.

"I was just talking about the ferris wheel and shit. Cotton candy."

"Yes. Terribly American things. It made me jealous. And your whole face lit up, and you were particularly radiant and beautiful, telling me these little stories, and my heart just about sang. Terrible strain on my heart."

He laughs.

"And I remember that it made me giddy in a way that unnerved me, to hear about how happy you were, how happy the rides and the carnival and the midway made you. It was like I wanted that happiness for you more than anything."

"Because you knew what came later."

"Yes. You were completely open to me- you didn't even need to open up- you were already open; you seemed to trust me immediately, right away, like we were deep close friends, and I didn't know why. I couldn't figure it out. I just knew it felt amazing, to have this easy, instant connection, and yet we barely knew each other, really."

He takes my hand and speaks softly.

"I think it was almost like, I mean … maybe this is a bad analogy, but … when you're a kid, and you enter a room full of adults, and then you spy another kid in the room, small like you, the two of you can go off together without even saying a word. You can leave the room together, and it's understood because there's this instant unspoken thing that you belong more with him than you do with anyone else in the room, y'know? That's the only way I can describe it."

"What, how it felt when we met?"

"Yes, and when I started to realize I was falling in love with you."

"Which was when exactly?"

He grins. _His_ turn, now.

"Well … that's a bit harder to pinpoint. I don't think I had any instant moments where it all hit. It was more, y'know … gradual."

He looks off, pondering.

"But well … I remember when we talked about music, which we did constantly in the beginning, I just remember something clicking off in my head about you at some point- it was like, recognition, or something."

He looks up at me.

"Remember when we had that huge long discussion that day at your office, for hours, about Leadbelly?"

I smile warmly.

"Of course."

"You kept pulling out your old scratchy records and telling me about all the record stores where you found them all over the world, and we just sat on your floor and listened and talked for what … do you remember how long ?"

"It was over 5 hours."

"Fuck."

"We didn't even break for lunch or anything. We just kept talking."

"Ya. We were like a couple kids."

"Completely. It was really rather mindblowing. I'd never met anyone in my whole life who was more obsessed with Leadbelly than _me_."

"Me either. And people were walking in and out, around us, and we didn't give a shit. We didn't even notice them. All your fucking entourage and business people, Mandy, and here we were in our own little space, blocking them all out."

"How did we know, though, Curt, that it wasn't just a discussion about music between buddies? Like any either of us have had before in our lives. Why was it different ?"

He lays my hand flat on the middle of his chest and covers it with both of his.

"Because …. I think … I think I saw something in you that I sorta recognized, like I said. There was … _something_ there. I mean, you just kind of had an intensity of passion that was happening, even if, on the suface, on the exterior, you had gotten into the role of playing the shrewd businessman and all that. To everybody _else_, that was what you were, but to _me_, you sort of allowed me this glimpse into who you secretly were, the real you- the artist, this person who could wax poetic, for fucking _hours_, about the _tiniest_ turn in Leadbelly's voice."

We laugh.

"I do tend to go on."

"No. It was really fucking beautiful. And it was all like …" He looks off. "It was like this thing that had been building and building sort of came to a head that day, that afternoon. I think what it was was, we were the kids in the room, with all the adults. We were the pure ones. Does that sound stupid? I don't know how else to describe it. I just remember by the end of that day, I felt different- I was like a different person, like I'd been infected with something." He laughs. "And it spread through me pretty quick after that. I developed this intense, intense drive towards you. We started hanging out every day, and at the end of the day when we'd split, I'd just _plunge_ into depression; it was so fuckin' weird! And then I'd be sort of oddly euphoric and high when I saw you again."

As he continues, I comb my fingers gently through his hair again, pushing it back from his face.

"But I still wasn't calling it love, see, because the idea of that scared the living shit out of me, and so I questioned it. I didn't know- I never do, if my instincts were fucking with me or not. I think in the end, I did it more as a mathematical equation."

I laugh.

"Seriously. Eventually, after, y'know, _weeks_ of this, I sorta went down the list of my feelings and tested them and tried to rule them out, but they kept not letting me. I was afraid. I didn't understand why I felt so free and open with you- I was afraid of getting hurt, getting disemboweled, but this whole other side of me was like, no, this is good, you don't have to be afraid."

I respond with my own reflections.

"You know what I think really surprised me about my feelings for you, was that I was reacting so strongly to your vulnerability. Nobody else seemed to see it- Mandy and Jerry and all them, they didn't see it- they thought you were this hard case, but to me you were crying out for … every movement you made, every teensy bit of body language … even when you threw yourself off the stage that first moment I saw you- head first literally through the fire, to me it just screamed that you were in pain and needing care."

I look down at him.

"That sounds horribly girly and fey, I know."

"No it doesn't. It was true."

"It just … When you did that, jumping like you did, when I saw that, I mean I swear to god, I almost died. First of all because it was so mad, so insane and also … it was so fresh and spontaneous and … it just said something about your level of passion that I'd never encountered before, ever in my life. It sort of scared me and I just could not help but be completely blown away and moved by it at the same time, and secondly … I just felt like in that moment that there was this glimpse, this window into your soul, hokey as it sounds. You just opened yourself up and made yourself as vulnerable as you could, to hurl yourself like that, and that's what I reacted to more than anything."

"Little did I know."

"It just brought out this side of me, these feelings that I'd literally never known _existed_- that was the weirdest thing of all- this total mothering instinct, this bizarro nurturing thing I'd never, ever felt before. I mean, I was still a complete cad- let's be honest, but suddenly there was this whole other thing you'd inadvertently tapped into, in a huge, huge way, just by being you."

"Just by being a complete lunatic."

We laugh.

"No, by being the incredible creature that you are, my love."

We sit silently for a few minutes, pondering it all, before I speak again.

"Here's something we've never discussed …"

"Okay."

"Why do you think it took us so long to get to the sex ?"

There is a pause, after which, we both burst out.

"It _is_ weird, isn't it?"

"Well, given both of our histories, yes."

"You know what, though, Brian? I think it's … I think it's really fucking cool in a way that we waited, don't you? That we didn't jump right on it, because, I mean … when you think about it, that is probably maybe the biggest measure of …"

I finish his thought.

"How different this has been for both of us."

"Ya! Exactly."

"We were both a bit wary," I continue, "we both sensed something was going on, and … an immediate fuck would maybe have …"

He finishes my thought.

"Cheapened it."

I nod.

"Yes."

"And now, let's remember, we were helped along – we were kept _chaste_ by my six week disappearing act."

I turn my head in angst.

"_Christ_! It was _so_ bloody awful! I was absolutely crushed ! Suddenly you're leaving town in a big fat hurry and I wanted to _die_. No matter what you said, I thought it was me. I was convinced I'd turned you off in some huge, fat way. I literally didn't sleep for that whole first _week;_ I was _so_ _miserable _! I spent the whole time pouring and pouring it over in my head, desperately trying to find the moment when I'd completely fucked up."

"Brian, I _told_ you, it was a business thing- a big huge endless round of bullshit with the last record company. I didn't wanna go home, believe me, but I couldn't not be there; I had no choice."

"But I was so insecure about you ! Here was this jewel that landed in my lap and just as I try to grasp it, it slips through my fingers and disappears. You have no _idea_ how much pain I was in, and the worst thing was, I couldn't show it, I couldn't tell a soul; I certainly couldn't tell _you_."

"Shit, you've never told me to this _day_. It wasn't like it was easy for me, either, but then, I was still questioning it all, I was still too afraid to believe my own feelings, so in the back of my mind I was like, well maybe this is a good test, being apart. I figured, I mean … Brian Slade can have whoever the fuck he wants in the entire world- why would he want a burnout junkie like me? It didn't make sense. I was pretty fucking sure, in fact I was completely prepared for it when I returned, the sight of you on somebody else's arm. Six weeks was a long motherfucking time."

"Tell me about it ! It felt like six _months_ ! All that time I had to go around acting normal, when I was _dying_ inside, wondering if I would ever see you again. So when we got the call, I immediately lept on Jerry and convinced him to fly you over here and sign you the moment you landed."

He smiles.

"Convinced, or threatened?"

"Both!"

We laugh.

"So _that_ was why he picked me up at the airport?"

"Yes!"

"Why weren't you there? I couldn't figure that out."

"Because … I couldn't bloody get Mandy out of my hair- by design, of course. She knew what was going on- she can read me like a book, evil bitch. There was simply no way I could escape. Plus, I was so freaked by that time, I'd convinced myself that if I showed up, that it would cosmically guarantee that I'd see you walking off the plane with some blonde 6 foot model."

He bursts out laughing.

"Are you nuts! No model chick is gonna be seen with the likes of me! Remember, Brian, with rare exceptions, the chicks into me are skanks, skanks, _skanks_."

"Well, come on, I mean, Angelina is no skank, nor," I half giggle, "is her mother."

"Like I said, rare exceptions. But I guarantee you, if either of them found out about my history, come on, _heroin addiction_ ?, let alone everything else, _they'd_ be history."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I _do_, are you kidding! But … shit, y'know … why argue about these things?" He places a hand on the back of the bench and raises himself up to sit next to me. "That's all in the past, now, isn't it?" He grins. "_Moot_ motherfucking _point, _you might say."

I'm beaming.

"Yes, you might."

We lean in for a soft kiss.

* * *

><p>"What time is it?" he asks.<p>

I glance through the window into the kitchen behind us but can't see the clock.

"I don't know, maybe 3 or 4."

"Still early. Let's go somewhere."

"Where do you wanna go?"

"Dunno. You wanna take a ride someplace or go for a walk or whatever?"

My face brightens.

"Let me check the listings. Maybe we can finally go to a movie at that old theater."

"Cool."

We stand.

* * *

><p>I'm tracing down the newspaper with a pencil trying to find the tiny advert.<p>

"Have you ever been there before?"

Thankfully there is at least one place in Ibiza that Mandy and I have _not_ been.

"No, and it's supposed to be really old and lovely. Quite ornate, but a bit run down, apparently."

He smiles.

"Sort of like the church."

"Yes, my love, which, incidently, tomorrow is cleaning day."

"Ya, I know. All the more reason to have fun today."

I spy the advert and circle it.

"Okay here it is."

I squint as I read the tiny text.

"Oh my god, you're not gonna believe it. They're playing an old Bogie/Bacall film!"

"No shit! How fucked up is that? Then it's fate, that we go."

"Yes."

"Which film?"

"The Big Sleep."

"Never seen it."

"Oh, well you must." I look up. "It's an absolute classic. Only thing is Curt, it will be dubbed into Spanish."

"Dubbed?"

"Ya, you know, that's when they take out the original dialog, and replace it with actors who read the lines in Spanish."

He grimaces.

"Awww, shit, are you kidding me? The whole thing's gonna be in Spanish? How the fuck am I supposed to know what the hell's going on?"

"Curt, I'll be sitting right next to you. I'll translate." I stand and reach for his hand. "Come on, it will be fun, and good training for you, as well. Remember, you'll be living in a Spanish speaking country full time after the tour."

"Ya, you're right. Shit. It's so fucking unreal. Living in the lap of luxury … on our own beach … in _Spain ?_" He bellows. "Totally nuts!"

"You still don't feel used to it at all?"

"Well, I mean … y'know, I'm totally comfortable here and everything, I mean, how could I not be? But at the same time … I think a part of me is convinced it's just some crazy fucked up fantasy I'm gonna wake up from."

I caress his hand, and whisper.

"No. You're not. This is real. This is your life, now."

He smiles softly.

"Come to me in five years. Maybe by then I'll believe it."

"In five years you'll be totally bored with the place."

"No I won't. Why would you say that? Are you bored with it?"

"Of course not. I love it. I never want to leave when I come here."

"That's how I feel. This place has like magical calming properties, or something. It's like totally slowed me down. Normally, I mean, … I usually need constant distraction and stimulation, like a six year old. Since I've been here, I swear to god, it's stretched me out and calmed me way the fuck down. I feel like I've aged ten years, but in a good way. Like, matured, or something."

I lean down and wrap him inside a wide, tight hug, and speak into his ear.

"I can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes me, my love, to hear you say that. It's an absolute dream come true."

He kisses my hair.

"_You're_ a dream come true."

I groan/laugh.

"No I'm not. Please. Oh my god, I'm an insufferable prat, but I'm getting better."

"Please. For my American ears …?"

I laugh and release him.

"'Prat' means a jerk, basically. A dick. A prick."

He smiles mischievously.

"Are we perhaps a tad penis-focused ?"

I laugh and lean in to kiss him.

"Always."


	45. In Fear of the Mongrels

We roar off on the bike. It's yet another gorgeous day and I sit as close to him as I can, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of his hair blowing back into my face.

I point.

"Down there, I think. Yes, that's it, Pueblo Calle. 'Calle' means street." I lean into his ear. "Do you know what 'pueblo' means?"

He hestitates.

"Um, I think .. isn't that, 'town', or something?"

"Yes! Excellent!"

"Well, that's sort of commonly known isn't it? Like 'manana' means 'tomorrow', and 'montana' means 'mountain'."

"Curt, you've never even let on that you knew more than that one phrase from primary school."

He nods.

"Sixth grade. Which you said I had completely fucking backwards."

I laugh.

"Sorry, it was true." I kiss the side of his neck. "I can't wait til we can have our little mini language lessons. Imagine, after the tour, we'll have all the time in the world to laze around the house and swim and go for walks and practice Spanish. You'll love it- it's such a beautiful language."

"I just hope it isn't a huge struggle to pick it up."

"Don't worry. Living here, you'll be immersed in it. Every day when you walk down the street you'll hear it. On the radio, on the telly."

_"Tv."_

_"Telly."_

"'Telly' sounds so fucking prim and English! Like 'twat'!"

I burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>We arrive. The poor building is in a bit of a rougher edge of town, and has definitely seen better days, but it's a beauty nonetheless, complete with old style blinking marquee.<p>

"This is so fucking cool," Curt remarks, looking up from the sidewalk as a few people mill about. "Reminds me of a place in Ann Arbor Michael and I used to go- the State Theater. It was tiny and old and it showed pretty much only weird foreign films."

"Sounds like one near my auntie's place. The Astoria. I used to sneak in there at least once a week during summertime and watch bad old westerns. God, that building was gorgeous. Lovely Art Deco design."

"Ya," he offers as he runs his hand along the decorative cement edging. "This is more Art Moderne, I think. Or is it Streamline? I can never tell."

I look at him.

"Since when do you know so much about architecture?"

"I don't know all that much." He shrugs. "Old stuff is just cool. Michael …"

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Michael's impact on a young Curt has proven enduring and widespread, and seems, despite how the whole thing ended, entirely positive. I sigh. His shoes at times feel astronomically huge- far too large for me to ever fill, but then I suppose I shouldn't try.

We walk toward the box office.

"So what old westerns did you see? I wonder if I've seen any of 'em."

I hand the man two pesos for our tickets. I shrug.

"Just like, you know, Audie Murphy and such. The Lone Ranger. Complete rubbish."

"Nah, never seen those. I remember one of the few times I got into a movie theater as a kid, it was Roy Rogers or somebody, and beforehand, they showed the Three Stooges, which I loved. I still do."

We head into the lobby.

"Shit, so do I. I had no idea you liked them. I know they're ridiculous, but it still makes me laugh out loud."

"Yes. It's idiotic shit, but for some fucking reason, it's a fucking hoot."

Suddenly he's giggling.

"You know what I just remembed?"

"What?" I ask.

"The State Theater, it had these big cushy seats, see, with lots of leg room, and one time with Michael, I knelt down during the movie and …" He bursts out laughing.

I shiver.

"It was an old Fellini film," he adds. "All that Italian got me horned out, I guess."

I turn.

"Did no one see?" I ask, with too much of a lilt in my voice.

"Nope," he giggles, "y'know, back row, pitch black, mostly empty. It was irresistable." He stops abruptly. "But don't get any ideas, Demon."

I slump.

* * *

><p>We continue inside. The lobby has seen better days. It's once grand carpet is stained and frayed. The ticket booth and popcorn counter are also worn but quite lovely and quaint.<p>

"Curt," I say, rubbernecking. "Maybe we should give them money."

"We _gave_ them money. You paid for the tickets."

"No, I mean, maybe we can donate some money to this place, or better yet," I grin huge as the lightbulb pops off in my head. "_Buy_ it! Seriously! Have our own movie theatre!"

The usher tears our tickets and we head towards the popcorn stand.

"Man, do you know, that is actually a really great idea. We could play concerts in here, maybe."

We stand before the candy counter, perusing all the goodies, with Curt pointing at whatever he wants, and me ordering it for him just as quickly in Spanish.

"Maybe I'll talk to the manager afterwards. Of course, it doesn't mean it's for sale. It's probably been owned by the same family for ages."

We make our way with a large container of popcorn doused in hot butter, two cokes, and three packages of highly overpriced candy.

"Brian, money talks. Offer the guy enough, and he'll grab it, I would bet."

"It doesn't means it's his choice, though."

We enter the theatre and move down the aisle. I stop. There are perhaps a half dozen patrons strewn about the place.

"That looks fine. Plenty of room," I say, pointing toward the back row with a lopsided grin.

"Nope," Curt counters, and directs us further down the aisle, where we shimmy a couple of seats in, roughly half way up from the screen. We sit, and I immediately dig into the popcorn.

"I'm afraid I'm falling in love with this idea, Curt. It would be like a perfect backup plan in case the music biz fails us."

"I'll always play music."

"I know, my love, but I'm just thinking, you know, in case our careers take a nosedive. They will _some_ day. It's inevitable."

"Leadbelly played til he was 50."

"51."

He smiles and nods softly.

"51."

"Okay," I whisper between gulping down handfuls of popcorn, "now before it starts, let me give you a little background story on the film." Curt shimmies down in his seat and leans close, ripping open a candy packet and taking a big bite. "The story is, Bogie's a private detective named Phillip Marlowe, and Bacall plays the daughter of the guy who hired Bogie to get rid of gambling debts, or something. The guy's some big general, I think. It's been a long time since I've seen it. There are lots of plot twists so you have to pay attention–"

Just at that moment, the theatre darkens, and the movie credits begin to roll.

I lean toward him, holding onto his bicep and scrambling to whisper translations into his ear, as we each dig into the large popcorn in his lap. Thankfully the Spanish actors doing the dubbing aren't too godawful.

_"You didn't like working for Mr. Wilde?"_ (Ie the district attorney. Curt gets a huge kick out of this.)

_"The old days, when he was running rum from Mexico and I was on the other side, and now and then we swapped shots between drinks, or drinks between shots."_

We each ahh at the first sight of Bacall, who is absolutely ravishing, and I scramble to not only translate her and Bogie's lines, but the manner and attitude with which they are spoken, which of course, is everything.

_"My, you're a mess, aren't you? I don't like your manners."_

_"I'm not crazy about yours. I don't mind you ritzing me, or drinking your lunch out of a bottle. I don't mind your legs. They're very swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their acquaintance."_

and later …

_"Medium height, well dressed, goes without a hat, affects a knowledge of antiques but hasn't any. Oh yes, his left eye is glass."_

_"You'd make a good cop."_

_"Only if he wore smoked glasses."_

_"I shouldn't think you'd have to work too hard to start anything smoking."_

later still …

_"It's going to rain soon."_

_"I'd rather get wet in here."_

_"A couple of hours, an empty bottle, and so long pal. That's life."_

Curt bursts out laughing at points, as do I, over the hokier words and delivery, and I have to keep shushing him while simultaneously listening and translating. After 15 minutes of this, I'm completely pooped.

"It's okay," he whispers. "You don't have to tell me every line. Let's just sit back and watch and you can give me the gist every few minutes."

"Okay." I take a sip of my coke and slump back in my seat.

He leans back as well, and I snuggle toward him, both hands encircling his bicep again.

_Oh_, how lovely it is, this simple physical closeness. Leaning up against one's man, during which you can admire the tawny beauty of his complexion, the sweet scent of his hair, the honey color of his lashes, the curve of his lips in the flickering light of the film …

It turns out I can easily summarize most scenes in a few quick sentences, though with those containing both Bogie _and_ Bacall I find I have to scramble as virtually every line is a gem _("Another hour, another bottle, another dame")._ The only point where we begin running into a bit of trouble is when I react to a particularly corny or great line, and he will turn his head and _immediately_ want to know what was said. The problem being, he will do so exactly as I turn mine, and so we keep bumping cheeks, foreheads, and/or noses. After a half dozen times, we finally collide, lip to lip … and freeze. In the next second, his hand raises to my face and without hesitation … we bloody well _kiss_.

It's so natural … so soft and sweet, just a small smooch, then another, a miniature _miniature_ makeout session, which, while yes, is breaking the rules, I can find no harm in it, for we keep pulling back in between, looking, whispering like the lovers that we are.

"This is alright, right Demon?" he says, grinning crooked.

"Well," I reply, cupping his cheek in my palm, "no harm in it, I suppose."

"Above the neck, 'n' all," he adds with a nod.

I smile. "Yes. We're missing the movie, but, (I lie) … this is the boring part …"

I pucker my lips and lean forward again, thinking, why have we never done this before? Just kissed ? Why must it always Lead Somewhere? Just as I'm having this thought, a brief shadow crosses my shoulder, and from there, everything happens in a flash …

There is an angrily spat phrase, which, surprisingly, is in English ("_fucking faggots_ !") and before I have time to process what is happening, I am uncermoniously _ripped_ out of my seat by the arm and hurled outward into the aisle. How my shoulder remains in my socket, I do not know, but have no time to ponder, as my view of the screen is suddenly blocked by a large fist swinging directly towards my face. Somehow I have the sense to duck, and do so, only to feel the woosh of air as it continues it's trajectory into the space where my head was.

_How surreal!_ My brain absolutely can't get over that _this is not a movie_ …

Curt flies out of his seat and tackles the guy, landing a good swift punch to the gut and slamming his torso into the opposite arm rest, the whole while cursing in an endless streak "_Fucking redneck asshole idiot motherfucker__!_" The goon, who has to be about a foot taller than either of us, quickly springs back, and slugs Curt hard in the gut. Incensed, I _leap_ upright onto his his back, slapping him, yanking hard on his hair and pounding the top of his head with both fists. (Yes, _okay_, I fight like a girl.) Curt, meanwhile lands a very hard right into the asshole's belly, and then knees him something fierce in the groin. I jump off at the last second as he pitches forward and then falls to the side in a great moaning tumble. In that instant, Curt yanks on my hand and we're absolutely _running_ full bore, for our lives, down the aisle towards the movie screen and then _bursting_ through the fire exit doors, straight out into the sunshine … leaving the sounds of reverberating alarm bells in our wake.

I'm gasping for breath and wobbly on my feet- looking behind me as we run, terrified the guy is right on our heels, but also feeling … positively exhilarated. Maybe I'm not such a pansy after all ! But then … why am I shaking like this ?

Curt meanwhile is cackling away at the top of his lungs and pulling me along behind him as we race round the corner, leap onto the bike, and speed off, ripping down the street.

"Y'alright, Demon?" he yells back.

I shimmy close and plant my mouth by his ear, shaking away, voice trembling.

"Um, I-I don't know yet. I guess. Y-you?"

"Not a scratch."

"Are you sure? He laid into you pretty hard."

"I'm okay," he grins. "_He_ won't be fucking anybody for a while."

"Yes. With any luck, he'll never reproduce."

We laugh. Still, a part of me is quickly becoming paranoid. I have an extremely clear vision of the goon screaming up behind us and hurling a knife into my back.

I point quickly.

_"Turn down there."_

He does.

"And speed _up_, Curt." Not something I ever thought I'd say. The engine roars. He doesn't need to be told twice.

"They'll never let us back in there now," he laments. "Should've offered to buy the place while we still could."

"It's not our f-fault." My voice is still trembling. I look at my hand, and it is, too. "I-I sort of … can't believe what just happened."

"Me either!" he laughs, "and I was just beginning to think Ibiza was more tolerant than most places. I guess nowhere in the world do they welcome faggots kissing in public, huh?"

I check over my shoulder again, and point a shaky digit toward the next road.

"Down there?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where we're going?"

I check back over my shoulder again, totally paranoid now, scanning every vehicle, every person on sidewalk or bicycle, not, I realize with horror, that I would even recognize the bastard.

"No, but I'm petrified he's following us."

"Aww, Brian, that guy's still writhing on the floor right this second." And then: "Have you never been kicked in the nuts before?"

I shudder. "Heavens, no."

"Well _I_ have, and let me tell you, it takes days to get past it. And psychologically, probably _weeks_."

I snap.

_"Who on earth did that to you? !"_

He shrugs.

"Y'know – the usual story. Some dirtbag. I remember rolling around on the ground and the guy lept up suddenly and kicked me where I lived, which unfortunately really was where I lived at the time- it was my bread and fucking butter."

"Horrible. Awful. When ?"

"I don't know. Few years ago. It wasn't the only time. The world is full of 'em: insecure, inbred, violently closeted cock-sucking cro-magnon men."

I want to laugh at this last brilliant, though sadly accurate sentiment, if only for Curt's typically colorful use of language … but can't. The further we get from the attack we've just endured, the scarier it's becoming and the larger it's looming in my mind.

Curt is fearless about this, frustratingly so, I suppose because he's been through it before – but then, what has the lad not been through? I, on the other hand, as usual, have been coddled and protected from such unpleasant realities. But it _is_ a reality – it keeps hitting me over and over that we've actually just been attacked, with no warning, out of the clear blue, by a complete stranger, for absolutely no reason. Yes, I have felt unfriendly eyes on us before- and heard the many less than complementary phrases. But to see and experience, first hand, the hostility and hatred directly behind those eyes is a quite frightening, startling, and extremely unnerving experience.

I check over my shoulder for the 15th time- feeling incapable of controlling my raging paranoia. It's as if I'm having a sort of panic attack, or acute episode of post-traumatic stress. Meanwhile, he's laughing. He's cackling and in high spirits. To him, we won. A triumph of love over boneheaded stupidity. Okay, yes, at first, I felt this way too- triumphant. Right now however, all I can see is how naïve I've been: All along, we've been _this_ vulnerable, _this_ close to it … even here in friendly Ibiza … _the place we plan to live_ … and why? Because we love eachother and tend to show it.

"Let's go home," I whimper.

"Naaw, Brian, let's go get streaks !"

"Curt, you just ate a huge bag of popcorn."

"So what! I wanna celebrate!" He laughs. "The queers vs cro-magnon man!"

I keep checking behind us, sure every face I see is his.

"The only place I wanna be right now is home in bed, under the covers."

"Demon, come on !"

"Please, Curt."

As we continue down the road another few miles or so, we come to an intersection with a street name I sort of recognize, and we eventually piece it together and find our way home.

* * *

><p>"What if it had been two guys, or five?" I say, panicked. "We could've been killed, or seriously hurt. How do we know that won't happen every day when we live here?"<p>

We're lying spoon style on the couch.

"We were in a movie theater with other people there- we could've yelled for help if we needed it."

"But people also love to stand around and watch fights, too. Or they might have joined in, if they knew the _reason_. Or, what if we hadn't been in a theatre? What if we'd been walking home alone at night, holding hands?"

He pets my hair a moment and speaks softly.

"Baby, you just gotta … you gotta develop a skin about this. You can't let it control you, or you'll never leave the house."

"That's exactly how I feel right now- we've been _assaulted_, and it's left me really frightened and paranoid. Isn't that normal ?"

"Ya, of course … but also … I mean, you can't let the idiots _win_, y'know? If you stay holed up in your house afraid to go out, they fucking win."

"But they've _already_ won just by making us afraid."

"I'm _not_ afraid."

I look at him.

"I know, Curt, but that's _you_! I'm _very_ afraid right now! I'll be petrified to even hold your hand outside of this house now!"

He pets my hair again. It feels soothing.

"You can't be, Brian. I won't let you be."

"If you try and hold my hand outside, I'll walk away."

"Come on, are you gonna pretend you don't know me ?"

"If it saves us from getting the shit kicked out of us, yes!"

"So, what," he snaps, "for the rest of our lives, we're only allowed to act like a couple inside of this house, so long as the shades are drawn ?"

"It's not my fault the world is this way !" I shout.

He shouts back.

"But it _is_ your fault if you let it turn you into a fucking pussy!"

I jump up.

"Don't you dare call me that! I lept on the guy's back, remember? I pounded him in the skull!"

He shifts. "I know. I'm sorry. You did great." He sighs. "Look, I'm just a little agitated."

"As am I, but for different reasons."

"Brian, it's not like I'm happy we got attacked."

"No, but it doesn't seem to faze you one bit, and I don't understand why. Even given what's happened, you continue to think we can act normally, like a couple out there, as if the world smiled upon that! You want to _pretend_ that we aren't risking our hides every time we show affection in public!"

He stands quickly.

"Ya! Because otherwise, it's _bullshit_! I don't _care_ what people think, Brian!"

"Even if it means getting your head bashed in, or mine!"

"YES!" He shouts. "It's _worth_ the risk! Especially when it's so fucking minimal!"

"_Minimal_ ? What do you call what happened today?"

"I call it VICTORY! over an IDIOT! who obviously equated QUEERS with PANSIES! And NOW because of that assumption, the motherfucker is walking around with the sorriest set of shrivelled up black and blue TESTICLES, as a reminder of just how fucking WRONG he was, get it ? _What the fuck good is being the king of fucking GLAM if you're gonna run and fucking hide the second somebody FUCKS with you !"_

I go to open my mouth to respond to this charge, but I'm completely startled and taken aback, and besides, it's too late- he's bolted straight through the back door.

"I need some air!"

I slump in place, panting, pissy, shaking still, embarrassed and incensed to be yelled at like a child, so thoroughly upset that the day, which began with such beautiful promise, has been totally and completely ruined- somehow ending in a brawl, followed by a screaming row.

A look through the window finds him angrily pacing the beach, puffing away, head down in thought.

I rant to myself.

King of glam rock you say? _You_ try carrying that mantel around for a while, boy! You think it somehow makes me strong and powerful? An example to gay youth, an example to the bullies of the world, this fluff, bullshit, manufactured, middle-aged PR executive's idea of pop culture _marketing_? I'm grinding my teeth and actually envision punching him in the nose …

Suddenly another vision appears: the big ugly brute, the goon, in front of me right now, and I'm wailing away, with fists, feet, and teeth. He's lying on the floor, I've _kicked_ him there, my foot on his neck. He says he's sorry, so sorry for having caused all this, for having done what he did to us today. And all the while I know- I can see it in his face, in his beady little eyes, that it wasn't his first time. And it won't be his last.

_Motherfucker!_ _As if he owns the earth!_ Beating people he disapproves of! But he doesn't even know me to disapprove of me! Ahh, but he knows this one thing, and that's all he needs. Someone I'm sure, who, otherwise considers himself moral. Upstanding. A church goer. But we, Curt and I, we're the Deviants. Oh yes. The Sinners. And it's up to _him_, Mister Morality, to dictate, to _enforce_, what's "right" and "normal" … exactly whose hand I am permitted to hold in public … or _private_, even! Who I can love … kiss … _marry!_

The bile rises. I leap out of my seat, and rip open the door, shouting in his direction.

_"Get back in here!"_

He walks in the door, gingerly.

"Let's go beat some straight ass," I hiss.

He squints.

"Huh?"

"Let's go find the motherfucker and pound him good. And then afterwards, we'll tie him up and force him to watch us making out."

He's staring at me, expressionless.

"The guy, I mean," I explain. "The goon from the theatre."

"I know who you mean, Brian. Why the change of heart?"

I approach, grab his head with both hands, and kiss him hard, fierce, breathless on the mouth. When I'm finished, he's blinking, and completely flustered.

"What the fuck was _that_ for?"

I reach for and take both hands.

"That was to tell you that you were right, of course. We can't live our lives in fear of the mongrels, can we? The other thing that was for was to tell you how ardently I admire and love you, more than anyone in the world, more than anyone I've ever _known_, and that _no one_ is going to make me pretend otherwise- and also, no one is _ever_ going to hit you again without having _me_, the King of Glam, to contend with."

He smiles.

"Shucks."

"And thirdly, I want you to know that if we weren't still seven solid days from our wedding, I would, without hesitation, throw you down in the middle of the street, in full view of our neighbors, and fuck you senseless. Til your balls swelled up like lemons, and burst."

"Jesus!"

I grin dreamily.

"Curt Wild's sperm, his seed, flowing freely in the street. Leaving a trail of pearl-white orchids in it's wake."

His laugh is wide, generous, and lovely as can be. I continue, tightening my grip on his hands.

"And all the smart women will run after it with turkey basters …"

He grins quizzically.

"What, so …?"

"So that, of course, nine months from now–"

"Oh, okay … then all these babies are born, right?"

"_Yes_, several blonde, blue-eyed, extremely beautiful but completely unruly children."

We laugh together.

"Ya, and all the dark haired, dark eyed husbands don't know what the fuck is going on."

We giggle. We lean. We kiss. We hold each other quietly.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: <em>

_Ten points to the first reader who can pick out the Pride and Prejudice reference contained in this chapter ..._


	46. Ordinary Things

We pull back.

"Okay!" I say brightly. "After all that, I'm absolutely dying to go out there and get into people's faces."

"Well, come on, Demon. I don't think we should make a point of it, just to make a point, y'know? It should be natural; if we feel like holding hands- we should, and most of the time, people haven't bothered us, anyway."

"But then, I think that's partly because the sidewalks are pretty much empty here, or, we're on the bike all the time, so that's not an issue."

"Ya, well … Bottom line, if somebody _does_ hassles us, we just need to … well, first, see, remember on the street when those old guys confronted us ?"

"Yes of course."

"And we sorta puzzled the shit outta them- dazzled 'em with words and ran circles around 'em–"

"–_You_ did."

"Whatever."

"Like Cyrano."

"Huh?"

"Cyrano De Bergerac. Did you never read that?"

"No."

"Well, it's an old old story, French; a play, and there's this scene where Cyrano totally squashes his rival just by talking circles around him. The guy wants to fight or something, can't remember exactly- I think he wants a duel, and Cyrano completely outsmarts him with words, totally runs him ragged and shows him for the stupid inarticulate ruffian that he was. You were like Cyrano that day, on the sidewalk with those men."

He squints.

"A _French_ guy?"

I laugh.

"Yes Curt. Anyway, you were saying …?"

"Well … that's one way of doing it- out-talking them, like we did that day, because these guys are never too bright. It's unsettling as fuck for them."

"Okay, but if that doesn't work- if they jump us like today…"

"Well … we have this other thing to our advantage- the Element of Surprise."

"The element of surprise."

"Yes. The thing about these guys is, they _actually_ don't expect a fight- because we're pansies, see. They actually _expect_ us to cower and cry like babies and let them hit us and hassle us. In my experience, when you turn and confront the idiot, physically push back, he's _so_ startled, he's _so_ fucking not expecting it, that you can punch his fucking lights out pretty easy, then knee him a good one like we did today."

"More than one guy, though?"

"Well," he shrugs, "if there's ten guys, fine, we're screwed; nothing we can do but run like the wind, but I seriously doubt that will happen."

I'm grinning and clasping my hands together in front of my face.

"What?"

"It's all so _exciting _!"

"You really never _have_ been in a fight before, have you?"

I grin stupidly.

"Today was my first!"

He laughs.

"But … I mean, are you telling me you've never been hassled about fag stuff before?"

I reflect.

"Well … No, not really, not to my face. When I was a teenager, I was a bit of a … predator, with boys _and_ girls, but at the same time, when it came to boys, I chose my targets very, very carefully and discreetly. I was meticulous. I studied them as much as possible before making any moves."

"So I guess that worked for you?"

"Yes."

"But what about now? Everybody knows."

"Well yes, but of course, with fame comes, y'know, a certain level of protection. No one would dream of saying anything to my face, I'm sure, and in fact it's become quite hip of course- the bi thing. Anyone who _would_ say something I suppose is kept from me. I'm in a protective bubble all the time, I guess."

"And somebody just burst that bubble."

Suddenly I see the big oaf's arm swinging towards my face again. My insides crash.

"Yes." The word catches in my throat and comes out in a half sob. I try to stop it, I really do, but my bottom lip won't listen, it quivers away in time with the water jumping to my eyes, all as he watches. God, I hate myself.

"I'm sorry." I run my hands over my eyes in frustration. "I'm such a useless twat."

He leans forward.

"No you're not. It's okay. It sucks getting bashed."

"Yes, it does," I sniffle. "It's terrible."

He slides his fingers into my hair and kisses me on the forehead. _My god ! _It's such a _sweet and tender and lovely thing_ !

"Do that again."

He smiles and does so.

"Once more?" I whisper.

He turns my face up and kisses me soft and slow and generous on the mouth, leaving me slightly spent.

"Better?" he inquires.

I nod vigorously.

"I love you, you know that?" he offers, just to flatten me further.

My heart puddles up. I raise my hand and caress his face.

"I love you too, my darling angel, and I swear to you, I'm not gonna be afraid to show it. Or well … I might be afraid, because I can't help that, but I'm still gonna do it. And I'm not gonna worry."

"Me either."

"You've worried about it?"

"Ya, of course, Brian. I'm not made o' stone. But I don't let it get on top o' me. I just try and ignore the idiots, and if they get in my face, I try and make 'em pay, one way or the other."

"Right. Exactly. No letting the arseholes, the cro-_magnon_ men win."

He nods.

"We'll live our lives …" I grin, "get married, y'know – the usual stuff."

He smiles.

"Yes."

* * *

><p>I sit up.<p>

"Okay, tomorrow we have to clean the church. Tonite- let's go out and have fun !"

"Waddayu wanna do?"

Lightbulb number two goes off.

"_Let's go dancing!"_

His face sours.

"Huh?"

"I'm pretty sure I saw an advert in the paper, or a story or something about a new dance club that just opened up."

"A _disco _?"

"Ya! Let's go check it out! I promise not to pick any fights."

"I don't dance, Brian."

I'm reaching for the newspaper.

"You did this morning, in the dressing room." I cup his cheek. "Which was _so_ _lovely_ I almost melted into a pile of goo."

He shrugs.

"But that was … that was … _spontaneous_. We were just swaying. It wasn't really dancing."

I turn back to the paper and begin leafing through.

"No matter. We're going. It's what I want, and I _always_ get what I want."

He chuckles.

"Is that so."

I skim the page and eventually spot it with my finger, the advert.

"Okay, here. Metro. Abertura magnifica, which means, um, grand opening, all this week. Free cocktails before seven. 115 Portola. No idea where that is- we'll call."

I reach for the wall phone.

"Brian, I don't _do_ discos. Can't fucking _stand_ that kinda music."

"Come on, my love, it will be good for you! Just what the doctor ordered- a physical release that isn't sexual. Or a punch-up."

"But–" he squirms.

"–Shhh!" I hold out one finger and speak into the phone, asking for and obtaining directions which I jot down. "Si, gracias," then hang up.

"Excellent. It's near La Rata- the club where we saw the New York Dolls, way back. Not far from there."

He says nothing.

"Come on, my angel. For _me _? Just an hour or so, then we'll have dinner- late, like real Spaniards."

"Okay. Check. _Steak_."

"Yes."

"But I'm just observing. Not gonna dance."

"Yes you are," I grin.

"No I'm not," he insists. "I can't dance anyway."

"Bollocks. You're very comfortable in your own body- I've _seen_ you on stage. You completely lose yourself."

"That's totally different."

"Okay, okay, how about this then, a compromise: if you hear a song you like–"

"–Which I won't."

"Curt, don't be such a brat! If you hear a song you like, which, come on, it won't be _all_ bad, you'll dance. Agreed? Just to that one song, then I _promise_ I won't bother you the rest of the night, okay?"

He sighs.

"Ya, whatever."

I lean, and kiss him on the cheek.

* * *

><p>We pull up outside, park the bike, then duck into an alley to don our disguises, having agreed it's best in places where young folks congregate.<p>

I pull my wig on, the same short dark afro I'd worn previously, and afix a hideous fake mustache, then turn to watch him struggling to tuck his golden locks under a medium brown, semi-wavy number, all while donning what are perhaps _the_ most ridiculous pair of thick black National Health specs I've ever seen.

The laugh busts out of me.

"I'm sorry. I just … it doesn't even look anything remotely _like_ you–"

"–That's the whole idea, Demon," he remarks, glumly.

"I know, but … it's astonishing: right before my eyes you've just gone from an incredibly hot, sexy Superman, directly into Clark Kent."

He shrugs, semi-annoyed, wishing he hadn't come.

"Oh well, I guess no one will be hitting on me, then."

We clasp hands and cross the street. The thump-thump-thump of the music can be heard fairly well from out here, and judging from the cars lining the road, the place appears packed. Good. That way we can disappear.

We approach the oversized, crew-cutted, not very friendly-looking door man. I'm nervous, I'm actually shaking slightly- it's our first test of public hand-holding since this morning's dust-up. I hold tight to his hand and feel my insides tense, bracing for … something. A crack. A look. A shove from behind, but thankfully, perhaps miraculously, nothing happens, as the man is apparently too busy taking people's money, and people are too preoccupied with trying to give it to him to notice or care. And so, in we file.

* * *

><p>It appears all of Ibiza has turned out, or at least, everyone young and stylish, and for the second time today, I feel old. Also, quite nervous, but this time not for anything to do with the gay thing. It's simply extremely nerve-wracking and perhaps foolhardy, trying to be incognito, and then going and putting yourself directly into the middle of a large group of people, the exact type of whom are most likely to recognize you.<p>

We move inward, sometimes having to turn sideways to squeeze between those people, and approach the bar. The place is, indeed, positively bursting. The lights flash away, with the occasional brief but still annoyingly disorienting strobe. Thankfully, unlike La Rata, the volume is not entirely overwhelming, though I can feel Curt bristling at the incessantly dance-y electronic back beat.

I order drinks for us, gin and tonic for myself, and beer for Curt, and then we simply turn and … observe.

There are lots and lots of dancers, and quite a number of beauties, both boys and girls, amongst them. Some you can't quite take your eyes off of. There to our far left, is a beautiful brunette boy with the long shimmery necklace and shoulder length hair who seems to be dancing by himself, eyes shut, lost in the music, or likely, some drug. Then the little glam girl, several feet off, sparkles in her hair and on her lids, grinning and bouncing in place. In the middle is the tall dark lad in the crisp white shirt with smooth olive skin and lashes so long I can see them from here, who appears to be with, though one can't be sure, an equally dark and smooth skinned beauty, clad in a cream colored satiny dress with spagetti straps. They look perfect, as if they are from another era.

The floor surges with them, these writhing, swaying, healthy young bodies, the lights playing off and distorting their faces, changing them and then turning them back. It's quite a fantastic scene and I find myself rather mesmerized, and also … a tad resentful and jealous. This, something as ordinary as going to a club, which I did constantly at one point, is not something I've been permitted to engage in, without a huge to-do in the form of an entourage and security, for, well … it's been over a year since it all _hit_. One year out of my life and yet it feels like one hundred.

What it represents to me at the moment, this club, these people, is _normalcy_, something I want so desperately for Curt and I; the ability to do ordinary things without fear of hassle or discovery. Surely he needs normalcy more than I, and so for that reason alone I crave it especially … pushing away the voice that mocks me for such ideas, for the likelihood that it could ever really happen.

It _could_ though! I won't be famous forever- the glam thing has a limited lifespan- anyone can see that, and then things will quiet down, surely.

But of course … Curt's _album_, which will be out in less than a month, could sell millions, as anything linked to my name is likely to do; he could become a star in his own right, in fact his stardom could very well eclipse mine. What's to stop it? He's charismatic, he's brilliant, he's maddeningly sexy, _and_ he puts on an insanely great, incredibly exciting show- really, he and his band could eat any of us for breakfast. I see gorgeous, sweaty, half naked live shots of him gracing the covers of Rolling Stone, Creem and the NME. "_It's a Wild New Era_", or, "_Curt: Exclusive and Explosive _!" or some such drivel.

It is indeed a sweet thought- justice for his years of being ignored by the public and dumped by record labels despite the groundbreaking brilliance of his music.

There is, however … if I'm entirely honest … this niggling inner voice, this fear I have, that if it _were_ to happen, if he _were_ to become a star … that it would pull him away from me. As loyal and sweet as he is, as much as we are in love, it _could_ happen, I've seen it time and again in this business … certainly Mandy and I were blown apart by it … and so, I must ask myself: do I, in all honesty, _actually_ want his success ? Do I love him enough that I'd be willing to lose him to it ?

My hands are clammy. My stomach pitches and twists. The yelling starts in my head.

Goddamit! It's not like I could stop it, anyway! If his album is going to be a smash hit, there's nothing I can do about it! Short of sabotaging his career in some way, of course … which … which … I would _never_ do!

So then … you're just gonna sit by and watch him get swept away by it all? The tide of success pulling him out to sea, and far, far from you ? Curt, in the gossip pages, hand in hand with some tall blonde starlet/model ?

Okay, _stop it!_ Get hold of yourself! I slap my drink down on the counter behind us.

"I'm off to the loo," I spit, and stride purposefully, trying, for the millionth time, to snuff the voices in my head.

_Why_ do you do this to yourself? Do _not_ ponder such things. Remember how often mother said it? 'Don't borrow trouble.' Think about today! Any lessons to be learned there, wanker? How about, don't honor and inflame your own fears and insecurities! Are you in love? Yes! Do you doubt that he loves you? No! So then … stop this nonsense and believe in that and trust in it. _Period_. End of story!

Okay. That helped. I find the loo and enter, still pondering, but no longer yelling at myself.

I sigh. Okay. As far as normalcy, I am _determined_ that we will blend in and live ordinary lives, doing ordinary things, as much as possible. Ibiza has been an incredible blessing in that regard, a refuge where famous people do _not_ go, are not expected, where in fact hardly _anyone_ goes, and so at least thus far (Angelina being the exception), we are safe.

Ordinary things. I have a flash that we really should go ahead and buy the bloody movie theatre after all. It's just such an incredibly romantic notion, simple, homely, and quaint. I see myself, happy and content, in a decidedly non-glam uniform, having nothing more to worry over than the serving of popcorn. I see Curt, rather dapper in his own uniform, (specially designed and fitted for him), acting as usher, and afterwards, the two of us cashing out and sweeping up, and then walking home, hand in hand, by moonlight.

We will, of course, (it will be irresistable) sneak in during the movie on occasion, unbeknownst to our patrons, and quietly go down on eachother in, yes, the back row, or, surely somewhere on the premises, satisfy my own curiosity about just how good a lubricant warm, oily popcorn butter can be.

I giggle to myself, and zip up. Then as I'm heading back, Curt's quote from earlier today comes flying at me.

"I'll always play music … We could play concerts in there."

Of _course_ he won't want to give up singing and playing! It's his life! The problem, the dilemma being that in doing so, we blow our covers, and the press will get a hold of it. And without the anonymity that a large city like London can provide (as well as Jerry's supertight rein on security), it wouldn't be long before they and then inevitably the fans discovered the house, and that would be it- the end of our peace, tranquility and privacy. The end of ordinary things.

Just as I dive head first into borrowing serious trouble again- twisting myself into knots as I ponder body guards, an electric fence, name changes and plastic surgery, a young couple stroll happily by, arm in arm, carefree as the wind on a summer's day, and I'm hit with an intense surge of jealousy.

"_You_ haven't a care in the world, _have_ you ?" I want to snap at them. I want to snap it at everyone.

I reach Curt's side, silently stewing in my juices.

"Did you _see_ them?" I want to growl, but stop myself.

_Yes_, they don't have my riches, and most of them, if they work at all, likely don't have jobs that involve creativity and passion, as mine does, as ours do. But in this moment, I feel like I would trade them in a heartbeat, trade them for their anonymity and comparatively low stress, low pressure lives. Trade to be able to walk down the bloody street day after day with their lover, their _spouse_, without fear of discovery, or assault.

I take a breath, tone myself down, lean over and speak into his ear, gesturing towards the crowd.

"Would you want to be any of them?"

"Huh? Would I want to _be_ any of them?"

"Yes. They all look so bloody carefree and healthy and happy, don't they? And how could they not? They've grown up on the Mediterranean! What worries or stresses could they possibly have? And they're all so much younger than us."

He ponders this a second, perusing the room, then replies simply, matter of factly,

"Ya, but … I wouldn't wanna be any of 'em."

"No?"

"No."

I lean back, terribly chagrined now for having asked. Just as my brain is churning about this (_why_ would he not want to be any of them? He who has had such a harrowing life?) … he reaches for my hand, and from his mouth, it comes.

"I got everything I need."

Oh, oh god. Instantly, the voices are gone. Instantly, I lighten, like a warm island breeze. How does he do it? Take life's difficult questions, and cut them so immediately and simply to the quick? What else, indeed, could we possibly need in this world, than what we already have, in droves ?

"What about you?" he asks. "Would you wanna be any of 'em?"

"_No_," I answer decidedly, squeezing his hand. "Not for a single second."

"Well, but you were just saying–"

"–Nevermind. It was just a weak moment, a hissy fit, of which I am sometimes prone."

He laughs. "Sometimes."

I turn to him. I smile warmly.

"I just need a reminder every once in a while that literally _everything_ I could possible want or need in this entire world is standing right here with me, in the flesh."

His smile lights up the entire bloody room.

I feel the pull, the quite natural pull, and lean toward him, heart aglow, lips trembling, completely a flutter. And then I stop abruptly, as, dammit, we're _surrounded_ by people and yes, I'm _afraid_ … These eyes, though, even behind idiotic fake glasses … are deep, endless, resonant, like the cool blue slate of the ocean. They lower, fall to my mouth, and then shut, waiting. It's a sight so beautiful, so desperately alluring and inviting, so _worth the risk,_ that I do it … I push my face close, my whole being shaking away, and bloody well _kiss him,_ dead center on the lips.

Immediately after which …

nothing happens. The sky does not fall. Our skulls are intact. I look round. People are preoccupied. The bartender is working feverishly. People are dancing. Any nearby males are either chatting up a girl, or snogging one.

"That was nice," he whispers as I turn back to him.

"Yes," I respond, laugh-gushing. "Terrifying as all bloody fuck, but really, really nice."

Right here in the middle of the club, he gives me a _look _and speaks in that uber-delicious weak-making tone.

"It's a good thing we aren't at the house right now, because I have something in mind I might wanna do to you."

I blink, and gulp.

"Oh?" I inquire shakily, all ears. "And what might that be?"

He grins wickedly.

"You'll find out," he says, downing his drink and putting it on the railing. "In a week."

"Ya, thanks."

"I'll be back," he whispers, heading off in the direction of the loo.

"Are you sure we shouldn't practice it in there, maybe?" I call after him. "Rather than waiting a week?"

"I'm sure," he shouts back.

* * *

><p>An:

Okay, nobody guessed the _Pride and Prejudice _thing in the last chapter, and only one person responded. Sigh. Here's the answer, if anyone cares:

Brian says to Curt, just after Curt has returned after bolting out the door following their argument about what to do in response to the bashing, "The other thing that was for (the kiss he suddenly planted on Curt) was to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." In _Pride and Prejudice_, Mr Darcy says to Elizabeth, when proposing to her, "You must allow me to tell how ardently I admire and love you." It's one of my favorite lines from the book, and I could not resist borrowing it for my little story. There. End of literature lesson.


	47. You're Looking At Her

I'm tingling, and instantly plunged into speculation over the terribly tantalizing prospect of something new and scrumptious and dirty that was apparently inspired by my kiss. As multiple filthy images flood my head, a tall, rugged lad sidles up and speaks softly to me in Spanish.

"Hola."

I almost jump in place, so lost am I in my happy imaginings.

"Oh. Hola."

"I couldn't help but notice you just now."

I freeze. Oh god, here it comes. I brace myself for the attack, holding my breath, having no idea in the world to do. Walk away? Run? Say something? If so, _what _? Stand still and pretend I'm not shaking ?

"I'd like to meet up with you, afterwards … _outside_."

_I'll meet you outside_- the hackneyed phrase from dozens of old westerns, confirming, of course, that he's going to beat me to a pulp.

I break out in a cold sweat.

"Um, I-I … don't know what you mean." I offer, hoping to stall him, looking off, panicked, towards the loo. Where is Curt ?

He moves closer and whispers.

"What I _mean_ is, I really wanna, you know … _blow your brains out_."

_Blow my brains out ?!_ Help! He has a gun!

"You're hot," he hisses, looking me up and down. "I bet you have a nice juicy cock."

Well, what is it? Are you here to kill me, or fuck me? Am I being genuinely propositioned? _Or_ are you hoping to tempt me outside with your sensual promises, only to drag me to the back of the building by the hair, or in this case, _wig_, where you and your friends will bash my head in, to shouts of '_maricon sucia_' ('dirty faggot') ?

I look at him. He _is_ rather attractive, and his manner positively _screams_ Top. I look away. He coos into my ear. "And then you'll return the favour – I can tell you like to _slurp it down_."

_My god, is it that obvious!? Okay!_ _Definitely_ not straight, then! Just a come on, so to speak, of a rather graphic nature. _Still_, it's so bloody startling- I've completely forgotten what it's like. In the 6 months Curt and I have been together, outside of Mandy's last orgy, it hasn't happened even once, even when I haven't been physically with him, which I like to think is because I was _mentally_ with him, and that I gave off those vibes rather intensely. Also, though, I haven't 'worked', professionally during this period either, and so much of the sexual shananigans tend to be tied in with the fame/tour thing …

He's still hovering.

"So … ?"

"Um, um … sorry." I'm up on tippy toes, straining to see the men's room door. "I'm-I'm _with_ someone. I'm _engaged, _actually."

How _extraordinarily_ _delightful it sounds _!

"Engaged?" He snaps, surprised, annoyed. "Well I guess your fiance doesn't _know, _then, huh?"

I then spy the blonde head making it's way towards me. I smile. I can breathe again.

"No, of course he knows. Here he comes now, in fact."

The guy looks at me, totally baffled, like I'm an absolute nutter, and walks off.

"You will never believe what just happened," I blurt to Curt immediately, laughing.

"What, while I was in the can? What'd I miss?"

"Well, had you been here, it wouldn't have happened. The guy waited til you left."

"What are you talking about?"

"I just got propositioned, hard and heavy."

"Really?!" he laughs, then his face falls hard. He whips round. "By _who _?!"

I laugh.

"Now you know how _I_ feel !"

"Brian, who the fuck _was_ it? I'll kill him!"

"No you won't. It was just some smooth talking jerk. He's gone. He took off …" I burst out at the realization, "as soon as I told him we were engaged."

He looks at me, confused, incredulous.

"What are you talking about?"

I nod.

"I actually did! It was so wonderful to say it, I can't tell you! I wanna tell everybody! 'We're getting married'!"

"Shhhh!"

"We are! And the best thing is, even if I say it out loud, no one will understand, or believe me!" I laugh. "They'll just think I'm nuts. There's real safety in insanity."

"Still, though," he cautions.

"I know, my angel. I'm just having a bit of fun."

"How is it that you came to tell him, though? I don't understand."

"He said he wanted to suck my cock–"

"Jesus!" he snarls.

"–_and I told him no, _that I was _with_ someone, and then I just blurted it- that I was engaged." I laugh.

He doesn't, at first. Then he does, with me. It's lovely.

After a beat, he looks around.

"So where is he?"

"_Curt_. He's _nobody_. It doesn't matter. He's gone."

At this moment, the song blasting through the club's sound system goes from some anonymous repetitive dance number straight into one of _the_ great 60′s soul songs, 'Get in the Groove'. Curt is instantly animated.

"_Shit!_ _Listen to_ _that!_ I haven't heard this song in a million years! I used to have this 45! The fucking Mighty Hannibal, right?"

"Yes," I nod, smiling.

"_So fucking cool _! Sounds amazing !"

I grin and yank on his hand, despite his protests, and pull him through the throngs of people, directly into the middle of the dance floor.

"Brian!"

"We _agreed," _I laugh, "it's a song you like!", I add, and begin moving and swaying around in front of him.

He's stock still, and stubborn, pouty.

"Come _on_. Relax!"

I dance and glide around him. It feels amazing to move my body so freely- I've completely forgotten how much pleasure it gives you to let yourself go, to lose yourself to the music- having associated it, music, so much in the last year, I realize, with 'work'.

I move behind him and touch his shoulders, guiding him to sway, and after a beat or so, to my delight and relief, he does, slightly. I then spin and swing round him and back again, moving in between others and then returning, having a ball, each time noticing that he appears looser, less inhibited, until by song's end, he seems somewhat more comfortable, having worked it up at least to a sort of awkward rhythmic trot.

"See, that wasn't so bad," I say, hoping he will stay for another number.

"Ya, did you know that guy, the singer, is a heroin addict ?"

"Who, Hannibal?"

"Ya," he says laughing. "Him, Lou Reed, Ray Charles, and then, me. We'd make a great quartet."

I laugh, and look at him hopefully. "Another?"

He shakes his head.

I groan, and we walk back to the bar. Almost immediately we are accosted by two girls, chattering away in Spanish, a little too flirtily for my tastes.

"Hi, I am Rosa. This is my sister Dina. We noticed you just now."

"Oh," is all I can offer, hoping they go away. Rosa, for the record, is brunette, I'd guess about 20, and quite pretty, outfitted in a semi-low cut nylon dress and wedgie platform sandals. Her sister is blonde, perhaps 18, more on the plain side, her teeth criss-crossed with braces, and wearing glasses about as thick and unappealing as Curt's.

"Are you new in town?" Rosa persists.

"Er um," I respond in Spanish. "Yes. Brand new."

Dina turns and smiles at Curt.

"Hola."

I clear my throat.

"Sorry. My friend doesn't speak Spanish."

"Oh, I speak English," Rosa expains, "but Dina only knows a few words. What are your names?" she asks in English.

I gesture to Curt. "Um, this is um … _John_." Then point to myself. "I'm Joe."

"We're brothers," Curt offers, inexplicably, despite the fact that we look nothing alike. I stifle a laugh.

The next song is underway, some typically hideous clubby sounding number, and the two are clearly anxious to get out there, and so Dina, who has just been told that Curt, er _John_, doesn't understand Spanish, goes ahead and asks him,

"¿Quiere usted bailar?" ("Do you wanna dance?")

I scramble to translate for him.

"Cur- er, _John_, she-she wants to dance with you."

He looks back at me stiffly. He _so doesn't want to!_ I can tell that at another time, we will be wailing away with laughter over the predicament he now faces. He is a rock and roller for fuck's sake! Hard, heavy, underground, garage, _serious … _(If his bandmates could only see him!) … somehow finding himself in the middle of a _disco danceclub_, doing something he never, _ever_ does and has no interest in – _dancing_, only to then be trapped, yes, I can see in his face that he's accepted this- into going back out there and doing it _again_, this time with some girl with buck teeth and glasses!

I wink and flick my head, as I'm finding it all rather adorable.

"Go ahead, er, _John_, it's only dancing."

Before he can respond, Dina grasps his sleeve and pulls him gleefully along.

My smile splits my face. I can't help it.

Rosa turns to me. "Do _you_ want to dance ?"

No way, I think to myself- wouldn't miss this sight for the world.

"Um, no thank you. Sorry. No offense, but I'm a bit tired. And I'm not that big on dancing, anyway."

As we stand by and watch, Dina rotates around Curt and sways in front of him, clearly over the moon at her fantastic good fortune.

Curt meanwhile, stares glumly ahead, stiff, embarrassed, self conscious, again.

Poor dear.

"Your brother doesn't seem to like dancing, either," Rosa observes

I have to stifle a laugh. "He's … he's not actually my brother."

"He's not?"

"No. He was just kidding. And dancing's just not his thing."

"Oh. Well … It's a bit odd that you would both come to a dance club, then, if you don't like dancing."

I shrug, feeling no need to respond.

"I think my sister really likes your friend, though." Boy, she isn't shy. "He's very cute."

I stop dead.

Cute!? I want to shout.

_CUTE ?!_

Honey, baby ducks are cute !

_Curt_ is staggeringly, breathtakingly … _BEAUTIFUL_ !

I shake my head.

"Sorry, he's ah, he's _taken_. He's, engaged, actually."

Oops.

"_Engaged_ ? Well … where is his fiance ? Is she here ?"

"Er, _yes_," I reply.

"Well, why isn't he dancing with her?"

"He just did."

"Oh. Well … where is she?"

I turn and look her dead in the eye, with somewhat shaky relish. God, am I really going to say it ?

Sigh.

_Yes_.

"You're looking at her."

She blinks and opens her mouth to reply, but says nothing. Her face goes through a range of expressions: bewilderment, confusion, embarrassment, annoyance, and finally, disgust.

Sorry, I want to say, but really, I'm not. In the least.

Mercifully the song ends and Curt makes an instant beeline for the bar behind us, Dina right on his heels, and immediately reaches into his pack to light up a smoke.

Rosa grabs her sister by the sleeve, pulling her away.

"We're wasting our time here, Dina," I overhear, as they beat a hasty exit, Rosa giving me the evil eye.

He looks at me, annoyed.

"Why did you make me do that ?"

I coo.

"Curt, _you_ saw the look on her face. I couldn't bring myself to squash her little fantasy- dancing with you was probably the highlight of her young life."

I touch his shoulder.

"Who can blame her? Even in a wig and glasses, you're the most radiant creature in here."

He harrumps, takes a puff, and looks over my shoulder in their direction

"So how'd you get rid of 'em so quick?"

I smile.

"Let's go. I'll tell you outside."

* * *

><p>"Brian, <em>why<em> ?"

"There's no harm in it, my angel- when I say 'engaged' to these people, they don't think I mean it _literally_. If anything, they just think it means we're an _item_." We cross the street. "Besides, I'm not gonna be afraid for people to know we're a couple- isn't that what we agreed ?"

"Yes, but," he argues, figiting with his wig. "I'm paranoid. I don't want anything to fuck up the wedding- I don't want word leaking out about it at all, in case people find out where it is, and try to disrupt it."

He mounts the bike.

"Don't be silly," I say, carefully removing my sticky fake mustache. "We're total strangers to these people- they have no idea where we live, or when the ceremony's going to be, or that there's even going to _be_ a ceremony. No clue."

He shrugs.

"I guess I'm just …"

I raise a leg and climb on, holding onto his shoulders for leverage, a quite lovely feeling on it's own.

"Brian, I gotta start it."

"Oh. Well … why can't we do it this way?" I grin, and whisper into his neck. "It might be interesting."

He groans. I laugh, and lean back to watch, eyes at the ready.

_Up_, his torso pops, so that that scrumptious bottom is mid-way up my chest, and that broad back and lovely shapely arms flex visibly … only to _drop_ downward with fully grunted force, once, twice, three times, then a fourth for good measure … before the thing finally starts, unfortunately.

"Phew," I offer. "You should charge people for this."

"I'm just a piece o' meat," he sighs.

"Yes." I lean and kiss the back of his neck. "The most lucious, succulent _filet mignon_ on the planet."

"Speaking of which …"

… And off we head to the steakhouse.

* * *

><p>After an expensive dinner of a (well done) T-bone and baked potato for Curt, and indeed, filet mignon (rare) and salad for moi, we ride home literally into the sunset- the sky above and ahead of us a magnificent impressionist watercolor painting.<p>

At home, we retire to the porch swing, totally pooped, and extremely stuffed, to watch the twinkling night sky. He lays in my lap.

"Fucking crazyass day, huh Demon?"

"Yes," I muse, "let me see … the selection of our wedding attire … the viewing of a classic film in an old theatre …. um, the hatching of a handy little back-up business plan …"

"Fag bashing."

"Yes, followed by a big row here at the house … then …"

"_Dancing_."

"Yes! In disguise. During which I am _quite_ obscenely propositioned … "

He groan-growls.

" … and then afterwards," I quickly add, "a couple of late night steaks."

"Fuckin' best one I ever had."

I smile. It doesn't matter that I'd been there before, had that very same meal. Everything with Curt is new. I run my fingers through the soft strands of his hair. I look up. The moon beyond us is glowing, big as the night sky.

"And now we're home …" he offers.

_My … dear … god_.

Such a simple statement, and yet, possibly the most beautiful and romantic thing I've ever heard.

The warmth travels through me. I look down, eyes fogged, heart lanced, weakened by this beautiful being, this treasure before me who has redefined everything, taught me a new language, taken my world, my life, shaken it, shattered it, all that I knew, or thought I did.

I cup his cheek. I whisper.

"_I love you so much. … You have no idea._"

He looks. He raises himself up to sit.

"I love you, too, baby. More than the whole world."

* * *

><p>We retire upstairs and fall to the bed, spent and floppy like ragdolls. He kisses the side of my neck and wraps an arm round my torso, his body curling, as always, toward mine. Madly in love, am I, beyond the pale, high as a kite on this feeling, but sleep does beckon …<p>

Just as I'm drifting off, I feel the bed shift. He's getting up.

"What is it, my darling?

"Sleep downstairs," he mumbles.

I shoot up quickly. Even when we've been furiously angry at eachother, we've slept in the same bed.

"_What!?_ _Why_? "

"Cuz …" He turns to me. "Horned. Not takin' any chances."

"But …"

He turns away to leave.

"_Wait !_"

He turns back, eyes sleepy.

"Don't go, my angel. _Please?_ I can't _stand_ the thought of spending the night apart."

"Brian–"

"–I know. We won't slip up though; I _promise_." I jump out of bed and retrieve some extra pillows from the closet, which I arrange down the middle of the bed. "See? Here. We'll have a wall between us." I smile. "A moat, which neither of us is permitted to cross." I take his hand and lead him back. I kiss him quickly and smile. "Okay?"

He shrugs.

* * *

><p><em>An: Okay, small quiz: Can anyone spot the reference to the old David Bowie song? The title of the song is pretty much spelled out by Brian, when he and Curt are interacting with the two girls. Hint: it has to do with the subject of dancing._


	48. The Danger Zone Cover?

In the morning I pull myself from bed and stop to look. My side, as usual, is neat and orderly, with sheet and blanket still mostly tucked. His side, as usual, is an atrocious mess: sheets ripped completely from the mattress, legs impossibly tangled therein, the pillow which had been beneath his head, having somehow ended in a rumpled pile on the floor, half way out of it's case, while one of the moat pillows is clenched tightly to his chest, within an inch of it's life, as he snores away beneath it, lovely as can possibly be.

* * *

><p>Quietly I descend the stairs and go about tending to breakfast – hardboiled eggs, bacon- crunchy, just as he likes it, brown toast, mango-papaya juice, tea, and black coffee. I congratulate myself at how efficient the whole production is, happily dashing between table, coffee maker and frying pan.<p>

Into this arrangement he eventually descends, like a scruffy, stubbly ragamuffin, albeit, one with a cigarette danging from it's lips.

I approach. His fist is jammed into his eye, rubbing, rubbing. I reach, take it from him, remove the cig, and kiss him.

"You'll go blind, y'know."

His voice croaks in an indecipherable grunt.

As I run a finger down his cheek, over the crease left by the mattress, his face bursts into an enormously wide yawn.

I laugh.

"I love mornings with you."

"Hmm?"

"I think I love you best then. It's when you're most adorable."

He chuckles hoarsely, sleepily.

I kiss him again and lean back, brushing my fingers along the scratchy stubble.

"And this … _this_ is definitely about the morning. Fantastically alluring."

"'dorable ?"

I laugh.

"No. Hurts."

He shuffles over to the table to sit, stretching and yawning on the way.

"Fuckin' train wreck."

"Do you not feel well, my darling?"

He shrugs.

"I'm okay … just didn't sleep much."

"Why? Did I keep you awake?"

"No, it was just …"

"What?"

"Just, y'know … dreams."

I lay a hot plate before him, pour coffee, and run a soft hand up into his hair, momentarily cradling the back of his head.

"Did you have bad ones, my love?"

He reaches for the bacon and crunches right into it.

"No, not bad."

"But they kept you awake?"

"Sorta." He shrugs. "Went to bed horned."

I look at him.

"So … dirty ones?"

He nods.

"Was I in it? That thing you mentioned to me in the club?"

He laughs.

"_What_ thing … ?" He waves his hand. "Oh, no. Totally different."

"Well, what then ?"

"Brian, come on. You know the rules."

"Well, but … it's just a dream. I'm not gonna jump your bones over _that_."

I walk to the stove and prepare my own plate, hoping he'll buy my argument.

"It involved oral sex, though."

I smile.

"'Oral sex'? You're cleaning up your language for me? Come on. Now you _have_ to tell me."

He drinks his coffee.

"Nah. Another time, maybe. It was kinda sick."

The lad, dropping hints such as this, about _blowjobs_,and he thinks he's gonna get away with it?

I approach, and sit, all nonchalant, sipping at my tea. I wait, staring patiently at my toast, before reaching for it, then take a calm, meticulous bite, then one of my bacon, … nibbling away at the broken crumbs … brushing them across the plate … another sip or two of tea … waiting … waiting … until finally, I glance.

He's staring straight at me, not falling for it.

I laugh.

"_Okay_. You can't blame a guy for trying, though."

He munches his egg.

"Ya, you can."

I shrug.

"An old interview trick I learned from a reporter. He had this uncanny knack for getting me to spill stuff I wasn't supposed to and I could never figure out why. Then I fucked him, and he finally told me: you ask a question and then you just shut up … and wait … and _wait_. It's guaranteed: the person being interviewed will feel a compulsion to blather on in order to fill in the awkward void, and hence, eventually, your scoop. Brilliant."

"You fucked a reporter?"

I laugh.

"Yes, Curt. But that wasn't quite the point of my story. I was trying to explain myself just now, and also impart some wisdom on how to handle the press for your upcoming junket, but it looks like you already know how."

"Junket?"

"That's … that's just a term for like, the press blitz that will accompany your album."

"Oh …" He takes a puff. "So it will be like a big deal, and shit?"

"Has Jerry not discussed this with you? Yes. Should be fairly sizeable."

"Like, you mean, a press conference?"

"No, this will be more one on one, I believe. With reporters from everywhere."

"Okay. Wow. Never done that."

"You've been interviewed before, Curt. I've read them myself."

"Ya, like twice. Coupla shitty local rock mags." He grins. He takes a drag and exhales. "You must have been digging pretty hard if you found those."

"Yes. It was after you went back to America during those horrible 6 weeks. I was desperate for any connection with you, to the point of scrounging around for mentions in the press, which when I found, I nearly pasted to my wall like a teenager."

He smiles. "Awww."

"I was obssesed. I played your records ten thousand times during that period, endlesssly," I laugh. "Probably trying to send you psychic messages to come back. And then I'd end each day staring and staring at the pictures on the cover, and beating myself off, furiously, to sleep."

He bursts out laughing.

"Fuck, really?"

"Of course!"

"But I look like shit on those records!"

"Are you _nuts_ !? The _Danger Zone_ cover ?"

"Well … I didn't mind that cover, actually."

I laugh.

"Ya, I didn't _mind_ it either. You're like walking, dripping, hardcore sex."

"Come on! It's just a live shot!"

"Exactly, all that bottled up testosterone let _loose_ !"

We laugh.

"I thought that shot of _you_ standing naked in that velvet blanket – the gatefold, was pretty hot."

I smile.

"It was. I was standing under blazing hot lights for 2 hours by the time they finally got it."

He pulls on his cig.

"We should do artwork for my album- a big gatefold of us fucking."

"Nice, but I'm afraid gatefolds aren't in the budget. They're bloody expensive for some reason."

He sips his coffee.

"It's so fucking weird, isn't it? Like, just a short time ago we were people on album covers to eachother, and now … I mean, I'm not kidding, I can't even imagine that we haven't always been together. I feel like I've known you my whole life."

I smile. I whisper.

"I wish you had. Would've saved me from an awful lot of grief and lonliness … not to mention bad sex."

He leans forward, smiling … "Ditto," and kisses me. He leans back, flicking ashes into the ashtray.

"Also, bratty behavior," I add.

"Oh shit, we'll fix that."

I laugh.

"Will we? You're going to straighten me out?"

"So to speak."

We laugh.

"So … the reporter guy you mentioned, I'm curious … who was he ?"

I shrug.

"Some Irish bloke, or no … Scottish, I think. Ewan or Ewel or something. Blue eyes."

"When was this?"

"Some time in the last year. It's all a blur."

"Top?"

I shrug again.

"Versatile, as far as I recall."

He laughs.

"So what did he get you to spill that you weren't supposed to ?"

"Oh, it was something financial, how much I'd made that week or that month on the tour, or something. Or what I paid somebody, some member of my staff. Can't remember. _Then_ another time I made several cracks about what a bitch Mandy was, and how she was sleeping with Jerry's secretary."

"_Wow_. Shit. He printed that?"

"The financial thing he printed, but thankfully there was someone else in the room with me, one of Jerry's staff, who overheard me calling Mandy a cunt or something, I'm sure I was stoned off my ass, and they immediately held this humongous pow wow meeting and coaxed and threatened and I'm sure paid the guy off handsomely not to print it, so he didn't."

"So then why'd you fuck him?"

I shrug.

"He was cute."

We laugh.

I reach for an egg. They're still warm.

"So, okay, enough about me. Let's get back to your dream …"

"We haven't been discussing my dream."

"I know, that's why I wanna get back to it. Now, surely, Curt, you can tell me if I was in it ?"

"_No_."

"'No', I wasn't in it, or 'no' you won't tell me?"

He laughs groggily.

"You're not gonna fuckin' give up, are you?"

"_No_."

He smiles.

"_Brat_."

He swigs down his coffee and wipes his mouth in the manner that I love- with the back of his hand. It does send a small quiver through me.

"So what's the schedule today?"

I clear my throat.

"10am, til whenever. We'll break for lunch at some point."

"Have we got tuna?"

"Ya."

There thus ensues a very, _very_ long and pregnant pause, a thickening of the air in the room, after which, he finally speaks, exasperated, amused.

"Okay, look. I'll make you a deal. Tell me what the guy looked like who came onto you last night, and I might tell you my dream."

"Curt, don't be ridiculous. I barely noticed him. It's not like I would recognize him if he walked in the door right now, and even if he did, what are you gonna do? Punch him out? For what? He just talked to me."

"Okay, well … but what did he say?"

"That he wanted to suck my cock."

"So he just walked right up to you and said 'I wanna suck your cock'?"

"Yes. And then he turned the tables and said … what was it, now. Um," I laugh, "he said he could tell that I like to 'slurp it down'." I look, mock insulted. "Imagine saying something like that to me!"

He smiles.

"It's those lips."

"Huh? What's wrong with my lips?"

"Nothing. That's the point. They're so goddam full and sensual, it's ridiculous. It'd make any guy think o' that."

I shrug. In truth, I've had several complements over the years along these lines … just never before from Curt.

"So you're just noticing them now, are you?"

He takes a drag and exhales.

"No."

"Are they your favorite body part of mine ?"

He laughs.

"_No_."

I cross my arms and lean forward slightly.

"So …"

"So ?"

"Your turn, now. Tell me the bloody fucking dream, already."

"I said I _might_ tell you."

"Bastard! Come on! I _promise_ to remain on my side of the table at all times."

He sits back. He stubs out his cig.

"Okay, okay. It was just … it was sorta like something I saw in a porn flick once."

"Which was ?"

"Um, it was sort of like, a group thing, like … an assembly line."

"For blowjobs."

"Ya."

"Alright … so was I in it at all ?"

"No. People in my dreams … they're mostly sorta, I dunno … faceless."

"Okay, so … were _you_ in it?"

"Ya."

"As giver, or receiver?"

He gulps down his coffee.

"Giver."

"Okay, so what's so perverse about it?"

He bites into an egg.

"Brian, I mean … the whole concept of a fuckin' assembly line."

"So you find that … offensive?"

"Well, not _offensive_ … just sorta, y'know …"

I clear my throat.

"I've done it."

He stops and looks at me.

"We must have seen the same film," I offer.

"_Fuck_. I guess."

"Yes. I'm afraid I've engaged in all manner of sicko perversions the last year."

"Giver or receiver?"

I look at him crooked.

"Okay," he laughs, "stupid question. So, tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"You know … details."

I frown.

"Curt …"

"No seriously."

"I'd _really_ rather not. It's fairly disgusting."

"Too bad- cat's outta the bag. I wanna know."

I fidget. I hestiate.

He places his hand over mine.

"Baby, look, it's just me. You're a _rock_ star," he continues, smiling softly. "I _personally_ attended one of your orgies. It's not like I have this idea that there probably weren't some wild scenes."

"Yes. There were. I'm not proud of them."

"Well I don't know that you need to be ashamed of them, either." He shrugs. "Goes with the territory, I guess."

He reaches for, and takes a bite out of his toast, and sits back, waiting for me to fill the silence.

I sigh. I stare into my plate. I look at him. I gaze again at my plate again.

He whispers.

"Come on, Brian. I'm just curious. I promise to remain on my side of the table."

I smile briefly.

"What do you wanna know about it?"

"Just … what was it like for you?"

"Okay, well … I mean, it … y'know, it _sounded_ exciting … I mean, for a committed bottom such as myself- multiple cocks, all that. But in reality …"

"How many guys were there?"

He just wants to hear the dirt. I feel myself squirming. I cover my face with both hands.

"I don't know," I lie. Well, not exactly a lie, it's just that there were so many, it became a blur.

"Brian."

"Okay … twelve, I think."

"_Twelve ?"_

I peak at him through my fingers.

"Um, well, maybe, um, … seven."

"_Seven. _Were you the only one kneeling ?"

"Yes," I sigh, reaching for and then trying to to hide behind my teacup.

"Jesus christ, you really _are_ a bottom."

My face flushes terribly.

"Yes … well, I don't think that will come as any surprise."

"Ya, but this is like _super duper _bottom. So what was it like?"

"I-I-I … don't know."

"Come on! You got me on the edge of my seat here!"

I stand and go for the coffee pot, stalling for time, and then speak carefully as I return and pour it for him.

"Well … it was … it was just … it was one of those _things, _see_ ._.. an old, dark, fantasy of mine, being, y'know … objectified, being treated like a _mouth_ … to be used, or something … but when I did it -and I admit it was more than once- I guess word got around- it just … I don't know. It's complicated. It certainly got me off, in a mechanical sense, but at the same time, there was something in the pit of my stomach the whole time that … that …" I stumble.

"Not many people are able to actually get to live out their fantasies in real life," he offers.

I frown. I sit.

"I suppose."

"But ultimately, maybe sometimes it's like, y'know … cotton candy or something, the raw and impersonal stuff; it tastes good momentarily, but then it disappears and … maybe doesn't leave you with a whole lot."

"Yes. I guess that's it." I look off. "I just find the whole thing depressing. I'm so glad it's all behind me."

He smiles warmly.

"Me too."

He leans in for a quick kiss. I instantly feel myself relax.

"You know what's funny ? The irony is … I mean, _you_ and _me_, we're supposed to be fucking the whole world, right? We're supposed to _personify_ perversion- _sexual_ perversion, certainly not … what's the word?"

"Monogamy?"

We both burst out.

"Yes- you see? I couldn't even think of the bloody term!"

"Well, I think we've both had our share of …"

"Yes, _I_ certainly have. How refreshing; how lovely that the perverted chapter in my life is closed, now; shut tight, forever."

"Well, but, remember, though … one man's perversion is another man's, y'know …"

"Romantic evening."

"Ya. Or, fuckin' dream come true."

We laugh.

"Well, maybe we shouldn't confuse things, then," I continue. "I guess what I'm talking about is the perversion of, not so much the _act_ of what was done, but doing it with complete strangers – several at once, orgies, whatever. I find the thought of that utterly grotesque now."

He isn't exactly diving in here. I look up.

"What about you?"

"Well, it's two different things, isn't it? The flexing of that muscle that wants to explore new and dangerous shit, which is totally fine and healthy and exciting in my book, and then doing that with strangers vs exploring it with the person you're in love with."

Ahh, he is amazing.

"Yes. _Perfectly_ put. It's not perverse if we're doing it together. That's not where the perversion lies- it lies in doing it with utter strangers."

"Well, no, I disagree, actually. It's still perverse if we do it." He grins. "I don't have a problem with perverse, see. I just don't want anybody else in the room with us when we're doing it."

"Okay, yes. Exactly. Perversion yes; group sex, no."

We laugh.

I roll the remnants of egg around on my plate.

"We should take note of this, Curt- the fact that we've just had a discussion about sex, without really _talking_ about sex, really, so we haven't technically broken that rule."

He nods his head.

"Right. It's all in the fine print, see."

We giggle.

He looks up at me in that certain way, with head lowered, and eyes raised.

"Can I admit something to you right now, though ?"

"What?"

He holds a tiny grin.

"I'm slightly turned on."

I look at him.

"Well, then you'd better scurry into the shower."

He waves his hand.

"Nah. Won't be necessary. I wasn't gonna tell you but … I had a bit of a wet dream last night."

My mouth opens, and hangs there.

"You didn't," I pout.

"Haven't had one of those in fuckin' _ages._"

I whisper absently.

"It's because we've been holding off."

He shrugs.

"I guess."

I sit, slightly stunned.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm just a bit … I'm a bit … the thought of you lying next to me, inches away, and that happening without my even knowing it …"

"Without _me_ knowing it either. Fuckin' pisses me off. I've been workin' my ass off, absolutely _determined_ not to come before our wedding night, and then I go and blow a load all over your goddam sheets."

I almost fall off the bloody chair, but manage to steady myself, clearing my throat.

"Did you … did you, by chance, change out of your unders?"

He smiles.

"Yes, Brian. They're in the wash. Sheets, too."

I smile back.

"Well I guess today's wash day, then." I go to stand. "In fact, why don't I start on that right now."

He hooks his hand into my elbow and pulls me back down.

"Perv. Asshole. It's _church_ day."

"It's not even Sunday."

"Church _cleaning_ day. All wholesome n shit. We gotta get ready."

I smile and hover close.

"Make that a direct order and I'll pay you ten pounds."

He laughs a big beautiful belly laugh.

"A direct order, okay. Um … Go and get that beautiful tight ass straight upstairs right this _second_, young man–"

I gasp-swoon excitedly.

"_–_and get _ready_ to go to work and don't you _dare_ let me see you snooping around the goddam laundry basket."

I blink, grinning stupidly, eyes at half mast, holding my breath …

"_Understand_ ?" he adds.

"_Yes_ !" I shriek in delight, flying towards his mouth for a big wet kiss.

* * *

><p>An:

Yes - re the little Bowie quiz in the last chapter - thanks for guessing! You guys are correct that the reference was to Bowie's song "John, I'm Only Dancing". Hee hee, seeing as Brian Slade is based so much on Bowie, I like to put little winking hints into the story for fun, just as I have done, and will continue to do, with Curt/Iggy Pop references.

Regarding the _Danger Zone_ cover itself, to get an idea of why Brian's going on about it so much, or for anyone who possibly hasn't seen it, or forgets what the cover looks like (it's only shown for a few brief seconds in the film) ... I _highly_ recommend punching Curt's name and the phrase "Danger Zone" into google image search. It's WELL worth a look, as it's Curt/Ewan positively oozing sex in a major way. I actually wish this was a real album so I could buy it!


	49. Next Time We're Here

"You know what?" He asks, exiting the bathroom, wearing only a large, soft, cream-white towel round his waist. "I hadn't really thought of this: Do you realize we'll be eachother's _husbands ?_"

I force my eyes to meet his and stay there. When what he's said finally connects, I chortle.

"_No _we won't," I answer, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on a shirt. "Let's not kid ourselves – I'll be the wife, and ecstatically so."

He laughs.

"I don't think so …" He whispers. "Not with _that_ mouth."

"_You're_ the one with the foul mouth, my dear!"

He then gives me a _look _to make me shiver.

"That's not what I meant."

He approaches.

"What," I ask, "you imagine the little wife can't give a good healthy blowjob?"

He blinks. He speaks to me suddenly in that rough throat.

"It's like I once told you- in my opinion, you gotta _have_ a cock to really _know_ how to suck one ... the way _you_ know how."

I gulp. A tingle radiates up my spine. My voice is unsteady.

"Much as it pains me to say this, Curt … we're managed to dance around this topic today, but I don't think further discussion is … adviseable."

He looks at me … and jesus christ if I'm not bathed, instantly, in the clear blue light of desire … here in the total privacy of our bedroom, with warm, romantic breezes, curtains softly billowing … My god it feels like five torturous minutes as he continues to look without uttering a word … his eyes are steady, silent, during which he approaches and raises a hand to my face, eyes trained the whole time on my mouth.

He says nothing.

Oh god.

My brain is swimming.

I don't know what is happening, what to do.

He's seemingly oblivious to the torment and confusion he's causing in me, too busy analyzing my lips as if he's never seen them before … running a slow, soft thumb over them, exploring and smoothing over the tiny ridges, like he's hunting for a trap door.

I gulp. I whisper.

"W-what are you doing?"

He ignores me.

My lids flutter. My heart bangs.

"Curt …"

He continues.

_Don't_ _toy_ with my me like this, I want to scream, when I'm vulnerable and needy …

He speaks finally, in a low voice.

"It's hard not to think of you ... in that room ... with all those guys," he says, eyes flicking briefly up to mine, "down on your _knees_."

Oh fuck. I freeze solid. I can't _breathe_.

"Just the thought of it - what you must have done, what I _know_ you can do with this mouth - it made me hard in the shower just now …"

Oh sweet christ. He's _not_ gonna present me with an image such as this ?

"You didn't …?" I manage to eke out.

"No," he says, eyes dropping back to my mouth. "Turned on the cold, right quick." His voice returns to normal. "No need to worry." He pecks me quickly on the forehead. He grins. "I'm still a virgin."

He turns to head back to the bathroom.

Every ounce of my body - the volume of which has just been turned up to a million - is banging. I wipe a sliver of drool from the corner of my lips. I look down. My trousers have tented.

I look up.

"You are a cruel, and awful man, Curt Wild."

He stops before he reaches the door.

"Huh?"

"What do you mean, _'huh'?_ What the _hell_ was that all about?"

"What all about?"

_"'What all about?!' _Curt, did you not notice that you just_ disappeared _for a full_ minute _into_ Sexland?"_

"Oh. Well, I just … I guess I just ... got stuck on your lips for a minute. Sorry."

_"Sorry?_ I'm hard as a bloody fucking board, now!"

He glances down.

His face falls.

"Wow. I didn't mean for that to happen. Honest."

I snap.

"How the hell am I supposed to go to church, now?"

He sighs. He shrugs.

"Cold shower."

"What is it called in the States? Cruel and unusual punishment."

"Brian, I'm _sorry_. I just … I got a little carried away."

He looks mildly hurt, and genuinely embarrassed - as if he's done something wrong - which he hasn't. Instantly, I feel guilty.

"It's ... it's okay. It's okay. Forget it. I'll … get over it. It was a _terrible_ tease, but I'll live. Just don't do it again, please."

He's flustered.

"I won't. It's just … it's proven once again that we have to stay away from the smut talk. It's not safe."

"No. It's not. And … okay, it's partly my fault- I made you tell me your dream even though it involved …" I look up. "What clinical thing did you call it?"

"Oral sex."

"Right."

There is a pause, after which … we burst out laughing. The tension eases. He approaches, reaches out a hand, and I take it.

"I'll make it up to you."

I grin.

"I don't _want_ you to make it up to me, I want you to take it _out_ on me - on our wedding night, full force - every ounce of this horrid built up sexual frustration."

He chuckles.

"Okay. If you insist."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

We kiss. We head upstairs and get ready.

* * *

><p>It's a gorgeous day out, if a tad warmer than usual. Despite my words and best intentions, as the minutes pass I can feel myself tensing over the knowledge that we are heading directly for a morning and an afternoon with beautiful young Angelina.<p>

Unless of course, we're lucky and she's home sick with a terrible flu …

Okay. Stop it. I really _am_ going to try to be better about this, aren't I? I mean, do I have any choice ? She's Maria and Manuel's daughter, and if we're going to be living here, on the island, we will undoubtedly encounter her from time to time, or perhaps even a lot. She'll certainly be at our wedding. And she really _does_ seem like a sweet girl. Who can blame her for an innocent crush ?

Just as I'm feeling better, my brain does this to me: Provides me with an instant full color flash of her and Curt's slow dance that night, and those perky young nipples poking through her blouse.

Goddamit!

"Huh? What's wrong?"

Shit. I said it out loud.

"Um, nothing. I think … I think I, ah, forgot the … window cleaner."

"No you didn't- you packed it in the back like 10 seconds ago."

"Oh."

We travel onward.

Okay, think. _Deal with it_. Once, again, what is the best way to handle your fears? Face them, right? So let's do it- let's have it out, right now.

Right. Soon as I see her, I'll punch her in the face.

_No_.

The best way to get past these fears is indeed to confront them, and in this case, that means merely imagining them. Easy! So go ahead. What are my worst imaginings when it comes to the young blonde thing?

Okay, the _very_ worst? How about … Curt ravishing her, ripping at her clothes and throwing her down on the bed.

_OUCH!_

And … how about this? He's so overcome with desire and lust that he's _biting_ into her soft, perfect flesh … nipple, neck, shoulder, thigh, _everywhere_. She, meanwhile, shrieks and squeels beneath him, in delight and mirth.

_Okay, just torture yourself, why fucking don't you._

Well, but … Of _course_ she would squeel, of _course_ she would … she's young, undoubtedly a virgin, and would certainly never have been anywhere _near_ a storm like this, let alone directly in the middle of it. She's in fact, as I see her, slightly in shock, or at least, completely carried away by what is Curt, in his natural state … the swift moving current, lost in himself, thrusting and thrashing her about in his uncareful, unquiet manner … and it _is_ just a bit shocking to her. It can't help but be. She can look, but she won't see it, the man she's falling in love with. I know, because I _know_. You can see it in his eyes that he's not there, in these moments, that it's not _him_. He's _gone_, exactly the place he goes each time he throws himself around on stage; overtaken, with no choice in the matter- he simply_ must get this out_.

When it's over, when he's come so hard and so thoroughly that his arteries ache and his lungs are parched, she rests beneath him, confused, slightly bruised, a little frightened. It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it? Why did no one prepare her? Raging and powerful and scary as any storm at sea, and now … this calm, as if all that just occurred, didn't.

The sex will be like this between them- immediate, harsh, spectacular, transportive, it couldn't help but be … but outside of the bedroom, as he realizes he is falling in love with her … yes, I _am_ going to picture this … it will linger in him, this fear, this paranoia and unease, until one day the dam finally bursts and he will blurt it to her, the truth, exactly what it is that he's about, how wide and endless are his needs …

Here I am, here is _me: _broken, damaged, the embodiment of a nightmare; tell me _now_ if it's too much. And she, being young and innocent, a child really, will recoil, I tell myself, will even disbelieve him. It _is_ too much, these unthinkable stories of rape and addiction and selling one's body, let alone molestation, electric shock … suicide? I mean, come on. She will immediately see that she has taken on _far more_ than she can handle.

Her struggles, her panic, will be exactly what he fears. The color in her eyes will fade. Try as she might to hide it, he will _see_ this, and it will crush him, for he _knows_ it's too much, he knows _he's_ too much. He knows this well.

The problem being, of course, that it's the dividing line that he needs, that he must have, that _you_, in your nurturing, in your nonjudgemental acceptance of absolutely everything that he is, must embody for him, must _be _… or the whole deal is off.

As I ride behind him, clutching his back, I proudly acknowledge it: _This_ is what I've signed up for, kit and kaboodle. What the Angelinas of the world, I tell myself, the pretty young babelets, wouldn't ever, and furthermore ... can't.

The choice for Curt, were he to pursue her, would be to live the lie, to _pretend_ that he really _is_ like anyone else walking this earth, that he _isn't_ about these unthinkable horrors, that the jagged, angry scars aren't still oozing. The salve is in your love, in the saliva that you run, yourself, without hesitation, directly over the wounds; it's in your refusal to blink, to look away, in disgust, in revulsion, in pain. There _is_ no bargaining. If you can't handle it, you have no business being with him.

The warm breeze blows through my hair. I feel ten feet tall. I smile - I'm beaming.

This is all aside, of course, from the very simple fact that Curt is, after all, a _virgin_ … one on schedule to be gently, lovingly and fiercely deflowered … made whole … bit by bit … not seven little days from today … something he wants - _needs_ - almost more than he wants to _live …_

Do you understand ?

_Can_ you understand?

There is simply no future amongst such things for little Angelina.

* * *

><p>At the church, we park the bike and dismount. The building is as breathtakingly sweet and quaint as I recall, though a tad older and more worn. I'm pleased to see that the front doors are wide open, as are the stained glass windows, which tilt outward. How nice, I think, that the sad little building is getting some love, some air.<p>

I unload our sandwiches and Curt carries the window cleaner and paper towels. We smile a mile wide at eachother. It need not be said, what we're both thinking.

_Next time we're here, we're getting married._

* * *

><p>We walk in the door to quite a commotion. Manuel is bent, spraying and wiping down pews, Maria is vacuuming, David and Juan washing windows, Bella cleaning the alter, complete with the oversized, wide-eyed Jesus looming over her shoulder.<p>

A quick look round finds, (I admit that my heart leaps),_ no Angelina. _

Maria shrieks, shuts off the vacuum and runs to us, wraps her arms round us both and kisses each cheek.

"Here they are!" she shouts, laughing. "Our beautiful wedding boys!"

Manuel approaches and hugs us as well, as does David, while the others simply wave from their stations.

"How does it look?" She asks.

"Um … wow," Curt offers, looking around. "Fantastic. Even smells nice."

"It was _complete_ cobwebs and dust when we first saw it!" I add. "I hope you left some for us."

"Oh, there's still plenty to do," she gestures, "We haven't gotten to this whole area yet, or anywhere near from here down."

"We can't thank you enough for volunteering your family, Maria. It's so extraordinarily kind of you. We really do appreciate it."

"Oh, good lord, Brian, it's our _pleasure_. Nothing like a wedding to get the juices flowing!" She turns and shouts over her shoulder. "It will be good practice for you David."

"Mama, give me some time!" he laughs.

"You should see his boyfriend," she whispers, "_gorgeous_."

We laugh.

"Let me take that from you, Brian," she says, reaching for the sandwiches. "There's a small fridge out back."

"Oh thank you."

"Angelina's putting things away for us."

My face freezes.

"Oh."

Manuel approaches.

"You have chosen a lovely old, place, no? At first I admit I thought you had lost your minds, but it is quite beautiful."

"Yes, it is. Perfect."

We look at eachother and smile.

At this moment, past Curt's shoulder, Angelina enters. She really does have an immediate impact on a room, being in possession of the sort of beauty that I would term as both uncommon and electrifying, even with her hair pinned back as it is, librarian-style. And today, to boot, there is this complication: it's a warm out, and warmer in here, and she's taken to wearing shorts … and a bloody tanktop. Impossible, then, not to notice those long, shapely, tawny young legs, the slender dainty waist, the pleasing size of her bosom over which you can just make out the hint of a pale pink brassiere.

Pink bra … pink bra… ? Oh! _Angela_- Curt's old girlfriend. Angela … Angel_ina._ How odd. How uncomfortable.

She approaches, grinning, gushing, and as she moves closer, visibly blushing.

"Hi," she offers, shyly.

Curt nods.

"Hi."

I force a smile.

"Hello … thanks so much for helping out."

"Oh, I'm so pleased I could."

Maria enters.

"Angie darling, I need you over here."

"Yes, mama," she says, and turns.

My, and if she doesn't possess the cutest, tightest bloody little _tush_.

I force myself not to look at Curt- I won't have him feeling I'm spying on him, watching his eyes.

Maria calls to us.

"Boys, there's rags over here and cleaner and all that."

We approach.

"Oh, by the way, Angelina would like to ask you a favor, Curt."

I slump. What on earth could she _want _? What does she mean, a _favor _?

"Okay," Curt replies, hesitant.

Angelina speaks softly, haltingly, looking down.

"Um, I-I just … my school paper. I'm studying journalism, it's my, um, my _major_, I think you call it … and I wondered if …" She stumbles, flustered.

Her mother quickly fills it in for us.

"She'd like to interview you, for her paper. It's a school project and would help her with her class."

The girl's eyes haven't left the floor. I _almost_ feel for her.

"Just," she says quietly, "I mean, maybe about your new album … maybe. If you have time. If it's alright with you, I mean."

Curt glances at me quickly. It's not like we can say no, and again, I may be annoyed, but I'm absolutely determined to be better about this …

"Um, okay", he says finally.

"Sounds great," I add. "It would be his first interview for the album, right Curt?"

"Oh, ya. By a longshot."

"Wow," she gushes. "I had no idea. I, um ... I brought my tape recorder. I hope that's alright."

"Sure," he says, a word that is supposed to be spoken more robustly than this. "Um, you won't mention the wedding or anything, right?"

Her face falls.

"Oh no, I wouldn't think of it. I'm sure you want your privacy."

"Don't mind Curt," I quickly add, and turn to grab a sponge out of a bucket. "He's a little paranoid about the news getting out."

"Oh," Manuel offers. "You have my word- the baker, the jeweler, are all trustworthy and sworn to secrecy, and the florist doesn't know it is a wedding between two men."

Laughter.

"Manny darling, she's very opened minded. I'm sure she'd approve."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, after the place is deemed spick and span, we all retire for lunch, sitting round the church's front stoop, discussing the arrangements of flowers, the order of the ceremony, other weddings that family members have attended, etc.<p>

"It's going to be beautiful," Maria assures us, nodding. She looks at David and runs a hand up into his hair. "I can't wait for _your_ wedding, darling."

"_Mama_, we've only just met!" he laughs.

"Or yours," she says, pointing at Angelina.

"I don't think that will happen for a long time."

"Why not? You're all grown up. You just haven't met the right boy." She grins at us. "My daughter wants lots of kids."

Terrific. Fabulous.

"Mama, please."

"And not many men these days do, so …"

I shift in my seat, and stand, speaking quickly.

"Should we maybe get that interview out of the way, er, I mean …"

"Okay," Angelina responds, and dashes happily inside for her tape recorder.

Curt immediately reaches for his pack of smokes.

"We'll finish up inside," Manuel says, and the family follows.

I sigh. I lay a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay about this?"

"_No_, but what can I do?"

"It's alright. It's quite a sweet idea- her little school project. I think her teacher's mind might be blown, however."

"Her teacher won't know me from dick, Brian."

"Well, her friends, anyway."

"I think that's what this is about, more than her class."

"Oh, well what difference does it make? Any press is good press, my dear, even in a little college newspaper, and here we are giving an exclusive to the daughter of a friend, so …"

"Who has a crush."

I look off, and try to sound convincing.

"So what."

Angelina returns. I'm suddenly not sure what I should do. Sit by? Leave them to it ? Um … no.

Come _on_ you idiot! _Trust_, remember? _Husband_, remember?

I point to the door.

"Maybe I'll just …"

"No, Brian. Stay- you're producing the fucking alb–" He throws a hand to his mouth and looks at her. "Sorry."

She laughs.

"It's okay. I go to school in Madrid, it's a big city, so I hear all kinds of language …"

"I'll stay," I offer. "I've never seen Curt interviewed."

"Oh, well, this will just be …"

She positions the clunky machine on her lap and unravels her notebook which is filled with scribblings that turn out to be questions. Not half bad ones, either, showing just how much time and thought she's put into this.

"Um," she begins, "just to start, can I maybe ask about some of your influences, some of your favorite singers growing up, things like that?" She looks down again. "If that's okay."

"Sure, ya … um, well … huh, okay, well … I guess the earliest thing I can remember being into as a kid was maybe like old records my parents had, Nat King Cole, Scott Joplin ragtime, y'know, big band and old blues compilations and shit … oh, sorry."

She smiles.

"It's okay. I'll take that part out."

We laugh.

"And then, um … well Brian and I are seriously into this guy Leadbelly, from like the teens and twenties. He was an early 12-string wizz, like a genius on the 12 string guitar, and a great, great singer." He looks at her. "Your readers should go buy his records."

She smiles.

"I'll put that in there."


	50. Curt's POV

_**Author's note: **_

_Okay, my lovelies, it's true. In honor of chapter number FIFTY (!) (WOW!) ... for the very first time in the entire story, we are going to hear from Curt. I have avoided this to date, as I find writing from his perspective too damned daunting. It's very hard for me, for some reason, to get inside his head and reflect his thoughts in a way that seem real enough and gritty enough and Curt enough, but I've given it a go here, and would love to know what you think. Thanks._

* * *

><p>Fuck's sake, Brian's got nothing to worry about. I mean, ya, Angelina's pretty.<p>

Okay … she's fucking gorgeous … and even sorta smart, judging from her questions (with a surprisingly deep musical knowledge) but, christ, she's just a fucking _kid_. Ya, my dick spoke it's mind that day when her mother forced us to dance, pressed right against each other n all… but then, that's a penis for ya – an organ not exactly prized for it's maturity or tact. It was a total mechanical, kneejerk thing … and it meant absolutely nothing.

It's so frustrating to me that Brian, as a guy, doesn't understand that – that dicks really do have minds of their own. I'd expect that from a chick; not him, because, I mean, isn't it clear by now just exactly what he means to me? How much he _owns_ my heart? That I've never felt this intense a connection, ever before in my life?

Isn't it clear that he's my future?

And that I wouldn't have it any other way?

* * *

><p>I peer down at this kid at my feet, blushing and stumbling over her words, and wanna say to her, look, it's cute, and all - your little crush - and you seem like a nice girl … but don't be an idiot. You and I are on entirely different planes – different fucking <em>planets<em>. Trust me that you don't want a completely and utterly fucked up headcase like me for a boyfriend. Nor do you wanna waste your virginity on a, until just recently, suicidal junkie. You're from a good family for god's sake. Probably getting straight A's in school; bright future, and all – maybe one day you'll be a newspaper editor, or a writer, or something.

Go and find yourself a nice, clean cut, baggage-free college boy.

* * *

><p>After the interview concludes, we walk into the freshly scrubbed, sweet smelling little chapel, and, honestly ... I just wanna fucking <em>die<em>. It's just so goddamn _beautiful_, the place, let alone what it represents ...

Ya have to understand. I've just _so_, truly never been happier ...

And you know what?

It scares me to death.

* * *

><p>I've had this phrase, for eons, playing on a loop in my head: <em>"There's no such thing as a happy ending. If you're happy, it's not the fucking end." <em>Yup, total downer. In a fucked up way, though, it's been comforting, expecting, and usually getting, the worst. Because. When you're as pathetically screwed up as I've been my whole life, you sure as hell cling to the _familiar_, out of desperation for the sense of stability that 'familiar' gives you – no matter how shitty and unhealthy it may be – a bad habit; a rotten, poisonous 'friendship'; an abusive, damaging 'relationship'. (You don't see it until you get clean, that smack addicts don't really have 'friends' or 'relationships' – not in any real sense - and not with people. Heroin is our main man and our sole reason for living, period, end of story - the only thing we love, and the only thing in the world to which we are 100% devoted, committed, and faithful.)

So … what the fuck am I supposed to do with this happiness shit? I keep finding myself floating, blissed out, relaxing into it … but there's this persistent nagging voice in my head: _Don't get too comfortable, asshole. Since when has fate ever been on your side?_

* * *

><p>Just as I'm pondering this, for me, typical combo of fear, paranoia and bitter negativity, a certain sensation brings me immediately back to the present: the soft, simple feel of Brian's arm sliding round my back, followed by a warm, private, reassuring hint of fingertip slipping under my shirt, lovingly brushing my skin ... which as it happens occurs simultaneously with the two of us passing, what feels like in weird slow motion, through an incredibly beautiful, multicolored stream of light radiating from the antique stained glass above … and, as hokey as it sounds, in that moment I swear to god I'm hit with this inexplicable, super intense sort of revelation thing, this palpable, soothing warmth flooding my gut – so fucked up! - like total calm and peace and what I guess would be called contentedness, or whatever. In fact, it feels in a way like the discovery of some sort of long hidden antidote … to <em>some<em>thing. Like a secret that's been kept from me that everybody else knows, and now, I do, too.

I look. Lips are moving. There are voices ... but I don't hear 'em. Gestures are made, facial expressions suggesting delight and pride with the clean, fresh smelling state of the little building, all as I stand here in a daze. Happy-shock, I guess you could call it.

I don't see it at first – my vision's sorta clouded – but then there is Brian's face, his lips, closing in on mine.

When they make contact, the room bursts into applause.

In my head, on a loop?

"_Things are gonna be okay."_

* * *

><p>The week passes quickly, and it's semi dream-like. I feel a lot of the time like I'm floating, like I'm suspended in some unreal state. Even the light around us seems to have some sort of special filter on it. Everything's in a weirdly warm, golden hue.<p>

Each morning starts the same: a swim in the cool, sun-glinted ocean, which, despite a mental effort to stifle the negative inner back-talk, always seems to turn into a sort of challenge – Fate vs Curt. _Is this the day you drown me?_, I ask it. _Is this the moment you tell the water to stop__ holding me up? _And so I float, waiting, arms crossed, staring at the sky ... but the answer keeps being 'no'. Or rather, as I hear it: _"How about getting over yourself, asshole?"_

So I exit the beach, chuckling, and from several yards away, always, it hits me - the scent of fresh, homemade fucking breakfast. And there, always, at the door, stands he, achingly beautiful with lips chewed from worry, with relief evident in his eyes, holding a big fluffy towel, kissing me, drying me off, inquiring as to my swim, making me promise to be extra super duper careful, sitting me down, and in what to me is an almost unbearably loving gesture as he pours my coffee, threading tender, gentle fingers up the back of my hair …

I mean … it's all I can do to sort of not keel over from happiness.

* * *

><p>So … the marriage thing. I've made a small list, just in my head, in no particular order, as to why this crazyass idea came to me in the first place, and why it's got such a tight friggin hold:<p>

I mean, Brian.

Like, completely to myself.

Pretty obvious, huh?

Here's an admission – a really significant and important one - that I feel ridiculously privileged and grateful to be able to make:

_I don't honestly think it would be possible to love him more than I do. _

(I guess I didn't know it was possible to love, and need, another human being quite this intensely, at all.)

As it turns out, he's kinda the person I've been looking for my whole life, but was too stupid to realize. More incredible, (but less understandable:) he seems to feel the same way about me. He, who could – I can't emphasize this enough - _truly_ have anybody he wanted, certainly people far better looking, richer, smarter, etc. etc., and yet, somehow, of all things, _all_ I see in his eyes is fucking _adoration_ – like I'm some huge, amazing deal. I mean, is he nuts?

So. Marriage? Like, uh, ya … duh.

Before Brian comes to his senses and realizes what a _total_ fucking loser I am.

* * *

><p>Okay, I'm half kidding. Brian's not stupid. He knows pretty damn clearly by now who I am, and what he's in for, and what I'm about. And he loves me – <em>really<em> loves me - despite it.

(Can you believe it?)

Ya, I know, blah blah, two guys can't get married, whatever - it won't exactly be legal. So fucking what? 'Legal' and 'legit' are two entirely different things. This will be _very, very_ legit, and real, in my eyes. Dead fucking right.

Like I told Brian: _fuck 'legal'._

* * *

><p>There is, always, though, this niggling voice in my head: Don't I get a whole lot more out of the deal than he does?<p>

All I can say in answer to that is, that in one of many signs that this relationship is The One, for both of us, the very things that I've come to realize I need and crave beyond all others in this world – namely, stability, security, and, embarrassingly enough, (and for lack of a better term) nurturing, it turns out are the very things that Brian craves most in the world to give. (He says it's broken down all the unceasing emptiness and bullshit in his life, and, for the first time, given him meaning and purpose.)

Not stuff anyone on the outside would have guessed about him, right? (Or even suspected – because he comes off like such a hard case – your average asshole corporate businessman masquerading as a pop star.) Nor did he really even realize this himself until we got together, he says. Which in a way, I love best of all, because that makes it a secret … which to me is one of _the_ best things about our relationship – that, pretty much for the first time in our lives, we each have somebody we can share all our secrets with.

* * *

><p>Somehow, in the week before our wedding, we actually manage not to screw, suck, or generally manhandle each other. Miracle, yes! Okay, we come close, a few times. Okay, more than close. It's tough, let me tell you, waking up, not once, but three times, bone fucking hard, with the crease of the world's most perfectly formed human ass, whose owner is asleep, pressed tight against you.<p>

It takes every possible bit of willpower, but each time I do manage to creep away without waking him up, and go and run myself under the cold.

Then there's the time he wants to put eyeliner on me – like the stuff I wear on stage - because he says it looks hot (I agree, actually.) We're in the bedroom, in our towels, fresh from (separate) showers. I sit down on the edge of the bed, tilt my head slightly back, and he moves in close and stands right in my face with those beautiful nipples and perfect naked fucking chest. I shift my gaze away – downward, stupidly – and there's those gorgeous hip bones, pale, flat stomach and screaming-to-be-removed towel.

I slap my eyes shut, but he whines to me immediately.

"Keep them _open_, Curt. Your lashes are so long, they get in the way of the pencil."

So I do so, keeping my eyes above his neck, and stare into that crazy-beautiful face, full high cheekbones … full, not-of-this-earth lips … perfect, perfect skin … I mean, seriously. I've never in my life been with anybody this gorgeous. Or sexy. To say nothing of how he _smells_, right now, all naked and fresh from the shower ...

I'm okay. I've got it under control. Only when he's done, the fucker has to put a hand on my chest and go and whisper something sexy in my face, in that incredibly hot accent.

"I know we have to be good, but the way you look right now ... I'd give a million pounds to rip that towel off you."

And without thinking, I grab his face with both hands and pull him down over me, and then we're kissing and grinding into each other, hip to hip, towel to towel, before we freeze and he rolls off and I stand and we look at each other, panting, overheated, balls swollen, and he wordlessly heads off into the shower while I pace up and down, talking to my dick, cursing my weakness, awaiting my turn in the ice water.

From this point on, we're good, though. We really are. But it doesn't mean our dicks, or our minds, are any help. I'm tormented nightly, visited with the most intense sex dreams I've ever had, and wake up, each morning, hard. And then yesterday I crawl out of bed only to walk in on Brian, in the bathroom, carefully pulling his underwear around his own raging hard-on and down both legs as he slipped into a cold shower, himself.

So yes, for the record, do not let it be said that Brian and I don't continue to struggle, mightily, with this goddamn celibacy thing, nor that there isn't a _lot_ of painful goddamn unexpended sexual tension in the air. I joke to him that between the two of us, there's enough pent up energy to power a fucking generator.

"For the whole house," I add.

"The whole _block_," he quips.

"No," I laugh. "The _island_."

* * *

><p>So, truth be told, maybe fifty times a day I curse the moment I came up with the idea of holding off. But for each one of those times, I also find myself giddy – truly - to have something to hold off, for.<p>

A wedding night.


	51. Boo

_Author's note:_

_Okay, here's a short, humorous little ditty I've been planning for ages. I'm not sure how this will fit into the story from now on, so bear with it. _

* * *

><p>So the moment arrives. Curt still doesn't know what it is – hasn't guessed despite throwing ideas out at me all week. I crouch down, lift the cover on the box, gently turn it sideways … and coming positively <em>flying<em> out and straight _for_ Curt, is his very first wedding present.

His voice hits the ceiling- the highest register out of him, to date, including both sex and singing, that I have ever heard.

"_BRIAN! !"_ he shrieks at the top of his lungs. _"A PUPPY! ! OH MY GOD, YOU GOT ME A PUPPY! ! ! ! !"_

And it's the last semi-intelligible words out of him, for from this moment forward, he's positively engulfed by, enraptured of, and entwined with, the little being, and vice versa, as it proceeds to lick and lick and lick, crazy fuzzy little tail fanning a hundred miles an hour the whole while, all as Curt attempts somehow to handle this out and out 'attack', first by crouching down to it's level, then kneeling on the floor, and finally finding himself laying flat on his back with a puppy in his face, squirming and licking and crawling all over him, eliciting in Curt what turns out to be a record breaking, ridiculously joyful, literal non-stop rolling giggle.

Quickly, he's out of breath, but that doesn't stop the hyper excited exclamations and baby talk.

"_Oh, what a good little baby girl you are! You're my baby girl, aren't you? Yes you are, sweet little angel baby boo!"_

He looks at me from the floor. "We'll call her Boo!" Then back to the dog.

"_And we'll have to get a little pink bow for her hair, now won't we? Maybe two! And a cute pink leash! And one of those harnesses, Brian – not a collar cuz it might hurt her neck, she's so small. And a nice soft doggie bed, and she'll have to have her own special food – she can't be eating crap - and a pretty little water dish with her name on it! She'll be my baby girl, and she'll go everywhere with us, and come on the road with us, cuz we don't want her to be lonesome, and maybe we'll even get another little puppy to keep her company, and in the meantime we want her to be healthy so we'll make sure she gets plenty of sleep and plenty of exercise, and nice little treats in between, won't we, baby?"_

At first I'm not sure if he's addressing me, or the dog, when he says 'baby', as of course, that _has _been_, _to this point, my own rather treasured pet name, however as he continues, it's evident, by the high pitched cooing, which 'pet' he was talking to.

"_Yes," _he says into the squirming, licking face as if it thoroughly understood him_,"and we'll get you a nice soft fluffy doggie blanket, won't we? And give you a nice warm bath when you need it, with special doggie shampoo that won't hurt your eyes, and then brush out your fur nice and careful so it doesn't pull, and we'll buy you lots and lots of doggie toys and maybe Brian will learn to bake some homemade dog cookies for you; would you like that? And you'll be such a happy little girl, won't you? We'll take you for looong, looong walks every day, and in the winter we'll maybe get you a pretty pink sweater and some booties for your little feet."_

"Dogs has _paws_, Curt, not _feet_."

His head snaps to the side. Clearly he's forgotten I'm here.

Much as I might want to be semi-annoyed by his sudden, single minded obsession, and as much as I'm feeling actual twinges of jealousy, watching Curt positively dissolve, positively _melt _into a pile of goo over this little being with whom he has instantly fallen in love – something he has craved since childhood but had long since, sadly written off – I instead find it ridiculously charming and sweet – especially in light of his reputation as a badass, hardcore rocker.

"Huh?" he asks.

I smile. My heart is full to bursting.

"Nothing."

* * *

><p>When he's finally off the floor, instantly he's outside, running behind the little dog towards the beach, where the two scamper and chase each other back and forth in the surf and finally dive in, together.<p>

I look on in disbelief. I knew he would love it, but it's as if the dog is the culmination of all of his life's dreams, or something. Absolutely his new little best friend.

I turn to get a drink, and when I look again, I don't see them at first, but then there they are, out a bit further; Curt, floating on his back, holding the little dripping thing carefully with both hands, just above his face, blathering away.

A few minutes later, he begins wading in, holding the puppy, whom I guess is indeed to be called 'Boo', in one arm against his chest. I greet him with a towel, and it's quite amazing indeed, that the miles-wide grin – truly, it could light up the sky - has yet to leave his face.

He places a hand behind my head and kisses me sweetly.

"I can't thank you enough. You have no idea what this means to me."

"Um, I think I do," I laugh, reaching for the dog, whom I wrap in a couple of threadbare old rags and begin to dry. "And to boot, now you'll have someone to swim with."

He towels off.

"Oh my god, did you see her out there? She loved it! We're gonna be such good pals."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Seriously. Some dogs are afraid of the water, and some of 'em love it. She's a smart little thing, and brave, too. She didn't care how deep we went into the water."

"Curt, I don't think she knows the difference between deep water, and shallow."

"No, she did!" he insists, as he reaches into the china cabinet and pulls down one of my grandmother's finest crystal bowls to use as a dog water dish.

"Um, not that one, Curt," I tell him, "antique, worth thousands," … but it's too late. Boo has begun lapping away, lathering it in dog germs.

"Oh, it's okay. I'm sure she won't break it. She's just really thirsty from running around," he says, as he proceeds to lay down not one, but two of our expensive, ultra-high thread count towels on the kitchen _floor_.

"Curt, what are you-?" I say, in a panic. "Those are specially made – _hand_ _woven_ – of a rare, exceptionally fine cotton, imported from a remote village in Egypt. They cost several hundred, each."

"Oh. Well, until we get a proper doggie bed, Boo will need a clean, soft place to lie down, and in the meantime, they seem, like, perfect."

I stand there, mouth hung open, watching as she turns and turns, round and round in place in the middle of the material, scratching at it over and over with her sharp little claws to get it just right, and then finally plops down for a nap.

"See," he says, proudly, gesturing, "Perfect!"


	52. Jim

In the cab on the way to the airport, I'm suddenly stricken with a terrible bout of nerves. This is the first person in Curt's life that I'm meeting- someone who's known him much, much longer than me- since childhood in fact, rendering him the equivalent of family. They've grown up together, they've been through everything together going back 20 plus years, and here I am, waltzing into his life at the last second, stealing him away. Me, the flouncy pop star, the tart, the rich space queen with servants, butlers, and zero cred.

He'll hate me.

Curt turns, sensing my mood.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Brian, come on. You're rigid."

"I'm just …" I sigh, I look at him. "Curt, you and Jim are a long standing unit- you share your whole bloody life history. I'm just finding that a bit intimidating at the moment."

"But why? He's really genuinely happy for me."

"It doesn't mean he'll like me, though, does it? It doesn't he'll feel I'm worthy."

"What are you talking about? That's my decision to make, not his. I'm sure he'll dig you just fine. He's always pulled for me when it comes to this shit, he's always hoped for me to be stable and happy and okay."

"But this is like meeting your family. Can't you understand why I'd be nervous about that? He'll be judging me- if he cares about you, he won't be able to help but size me up."

"Well, but why would that worry you? You're amazing. You'd pass anybody's test for son in law or brother in law, or whatever."

"That's ridiculous. That's the last test I'd pass."

"But this is _Jim_, not my fucking _mother_. He's cool." He grasps my hand and smiles at me. "You're a catch, Brian. _Obviously_." He leans and kisses me quickly as we pull towards the sidewalk. "Don't worry. I love you, that's all that matters – to him, or to me."

We exit the cab and enter the airport. It's tiny, with only one main lobby and two gates. I look round, recalling our own arrival here, our own walk through these gates not 3 little weeks ago. We were different people then, completely different, it seems. Two blokes who hadn't a clue that the island would play host to their own wedding, _to each other._

We approach the waiting area and stand behind a railing. I'm tense. He grasps my hand and coos into my ear, beseeching me to relax.

"It's alright. You're amazing. Jim's a bit loud, he's kinda rough and obnoxious, but he's a big softie underneath. He's such a great guy, I can't tell you. He's got a huge, huge heart. I could tell you a million stories. He'd give you his last dollar. He'd force you to take it."

There's an announcement and a minute later a smattering of people begin streaming through the gate. Curt's eyes dart everywhere. I'm not sure what to expect- we've never discussed Jim's appearance. The only thing I know about him is he's exactly Curt's age- they were born on the same day in the same hospital- that's how far back they go.

My eyes wander over every male, and then … Christ. There he is. No question. I spot him a split second before Curt, whose face instantly changes. His mouth opens wide and eyes brighten and he smiles excitedly before moving quickly from the railing. He shouts toward him, laughing.

"You _ASS_HOLE!"

"_Motherfucker_!", Jim shouts back, grinning.

Several people stop and stare. Not exactly the standard greeting in airports.

The two men, oblivious, laugh goodnaturedly and throw their arms around each other.

"How ya doin', man?" They each ask.

"Ya look great! You're fucking tanned!", Jim bellows. He laughs and slaps the side of Curt's head fairly hard. "Look how _blonde_ you are!"

"You look like shit!" Curt laughs. "How the fuck did you get through customs?"

Jim grins wickedly.

"I can be charming when I hafta be."

On close inspection, Jim is tall and pale and stick thin and decidedly unattractive, with a long nose and pointed chin, which is covered in a black, sort of pointy devil-goatee. From one ear dangles a big silver loop earring, exactly like a pirate. He wears a ragged white tank top, worn jeans with knee-holes, and shoddy black lowtops that are practically flip flops- his feet are visible in several places. His hair is stringy and straggly, a few inches longer than Curt's, but nowhere near the quality or fullness. And to round it out, both scrawny upper arms are covered in big colorful tatoos, one of which features a dagger.

He may be a nice guy, but he's a dead bloody ringer for satan.

"Did you bring your fucking bathing suit, man?"

"No, you said it was a private beach!"

Curt laughs.

"It is! I just don't wanna have to look at your big ugly dick all day!"

"You fucken dream about my dick, man!"

The two burst out.

Wonderful. I don't feel _too _completely awkward standing here like the little wifey. Christ. Why can't I be raunchy and outrageous and slap someone's back and talk about my dick out loud?

Curt turns to me.

"This is Brian."

I force a smile and extend a shaky hand.

"Hello. I'm so pleased to finally meet you."

He throws himself forward and hugs me hard, momentarily compressing my lung cavity. Curt's grin is a mile wide as he watches.

"How are ya, man?! I'm a fan, just so ya know."

He lets go, finally.

"Oh, wow." I laugh nervously. "Thanks. I'm a fan, too," I blurt.

Jim laughs. "Maybe of Curt's- he's the band, really. I just play the stupid bass- dullest, dumbest, most no-talent instrument, ever."

"Fucken liar." Curt looks at me. "He's my co-writer."

"Ya, like twice."

"Come on, you came up with that riff on 'No Fun'!"

"Fuck, it was half the motherfucking riff- you always get it wrong. _You_ came up with the other half, asshole."

"Whatever. Who gives a shit. Let's get the fuck outta here."

If I had a ticker for swears, I'd say we were up over forty.

Curt wraps an arm behind Jim's neck and hits him rather hard, if playfully, on the head. He then reaches for my hand and the three of us walk out, side by side, drawing more than a few stares.

I stop suddenly.

"Oh, but what about Jim's luggage?"

He smiles at me and swings something off of his back that I hadn't noticed before. A guitar case.

"This is it. I travel light."

"I hope you at least brought your toothbrush," Curt says. "You're pretty fucking disgusting."

"Curt my man, the chicks dig me, regardless. When will your jealous little mind accept that?"

We begin walking again. I can't imagine a woman going near the lad, but then it's true what they say about musicians- you can be fat, greasy and absolutely hideous, but slap on a guitar, and the girls will flock. I've seen it time and again.

"How's Katie?"

Jim shrugs. "The same. Brings home the bacon. Sucks the shit out of my dick every other day."

Curt's face pinches like he's bit into a lemon.

"Christ, I don't wanna hear it. What, do you threaten her? What in all hell would motivate a chick like Katie to put her mouth anywhere _near_ you?"

"What can I say? She digs me, man."

"First of all, I can't believe you talk about your girlfriend like that. Second of all, you're fucking lying. You told me she sucked you every other _week_. And then only after you badger her."

"What, you expect me to tell the truth about these things?"

Curt laughs.

"Anyway, enough about my dick," Jim offers.

Yes, thank you.

"I got my shit- change of underwear, clothes for the wedding, _toothbrush_, all packed in with the guitar. It's the only way to travel."

"What, you brought a suit?"

"Ya," he replies, mock offended. "It's a wedding, right? Even if it _is_ only _yours_. What exactly do you take me for, Wild, a _complete_ dirtbag?"

"Well I mean, _ya_."

"Fuck right off," he replies, as we step into the cab. The back seat is a bit tight with 3 men and a guitar, so I opt for the front and tell the driver our destination in Spanish.

"Woah!" I hear from the back seat. "You really _are_ fluent, man. Fucking cool."

"Um, thanks."

"I told you, shithead, didn't you believe me? Brian's educated. He's way above my station."

"Fuck, that's fucken obvious. But then, who the fuck isn't?"

The two laugh and push and punch each other, exactly like brothers in the back of the family sedan.

I imagine myself done up in pearls and a 50′s print dress, speaking with a high pitched voice.

_"Now boys, how many times do I have to tell you to stop that nonsense when your father's trying to concentrate?"_

Christ, is this the impact Jim's going to have on me? In the first 5 minutes, making me feel like Curt's _mother_?

I turn in my seat, determined to join in. Jim looks at me.

"Thanks for the plane tickets, by the way, Brian. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. There was no other choice for best man."

Curt pipes in.

"Actually, Brian's lying. I had plenty of other guys lined up."

"For what, best man, or blowjobs?"

Curt pretends to think.

"Both, only none of them said yes, so they didn't get their blowjob."

Jim plays along.

"Oh you mean you were _giving_ head? That's why they said no!"

"Are you nuts? I can suck chrome off a fucking bumper! It's well known!"

"No Curt, that's not what I meant. Your sucking capabilities are renowned. I meant–"

"–You meant, if I'd let them suck _me_?"

Christ. I look over at the driver, praying he doesn't understand English.

"Ya!"

"So in other words I could've had some other asshole for best man right now ?"

"Probably. Or maybe like 50 guys actually. But don't even fucking ask, okay? Cuz I'm _not_ sucking your dick."

Curt harrumps.

"Fuck, I wouldn't let you within 20 paces, my friend. You'd get so turned on you'd probably bite the motherfucker off."

Enough! I clear my throat and turn around.

"How are you finding London?"

"Oh, amazing." He grins. "Sorry about Curt and me- we're especially idiotic when we haven't seen each other in a while. We'll calm down eventually."

"How long has it been?" Curt asks.

"5 or 6 months, I think."

"Jesus Christ! That's a huge long time for us."

Jim turns to me. "But London is incredible." He grins wickedly. "I actually haven't slept yet."

Judging from his bedraggled appearance, I don't doubt it.

Curt speaks softly and touches his friend's shoulder.

"We got a spare bedroom for ya, Jimmy. You can crash soon as we get back, if ya want."

He rubs his goatee.

"Ya, I just might have to. An hour, maybe. Sorry about that."

"S'alright."

"How was the flight?"

"A bit shaky, actually. I'm no good on planes."

It's the first serious things they've said to each other and I find it rather sweet.

"Feel free- our house is yours," I pipe in.

"Thanks, Brian. It's really cool of you. Thanks you."

"Wait til you see the place, man," Curt says. "Just fucking _wait_. You'll fucking _defecate_ all over yourself."

There is a brief pause … followed by Curt asking … "Speaking of which, remember that time …?", followed by the two of them hooting and howling for five straight minutes. It's lovely to witness, the relaxation, the abandon and silliness- they've each brought out the twelve year old in the other ... but why do I think the story they're referring to didn't happen when they were twelve?

* * *

><p>In the mirror, after they finally calm themselves, I catch Jim patting Curt's knee.<p>

"The house, the wedding, your new life, let me just say I'm ecstatic for you, my man. I really am. You deserve it. You deserve to be happy, more than anybody I know." He laughs. "I've been waitin' for it my whole life."

Curt smiles shyly.

"I know. You've always been there, man. You always have."

My heart swells. It suddenly hits me that Jim is the only reason Curt's alive right now. He stayed with him after the Michael thing, and wouldn't leave his side for weeks on end.

"Oh fuck, I forgot to tell you," Jim says. "You know who I saw the other day, walking down Nine Mile? This was like two weeks ago actually, before I left the States."

"Who?"

"Fucking Christine."

"Christine whatsherface? The chick from Lansing?"

"Yes!"

They both burst out laughing. I can tell this day is going to be full of indecipherable stories about Christine whatsherfaces.

"Remember that time at Dave's house?" Jim asks, barely able to eek out a word.

"With the bong?"

"And the fucking vibrator?"

They each double over and dissolve into fits.

I glance at our driver again, looking for any sign he understands what is being said in his car. Thankfully his face is stoney and bored.

* * *

><p>The car pulls up and we pile out. I reach in to pay the man, and before I've turned round, the two of them are off, Curt leading his friend by his shirt.<p>

As I walk up the path I hear an uproarious cackle- Jim's, and as I approach, Curt is standing beside him grinning proudly as Jim bends himself forward in disbelief.

"FUCK!" Jim shouts at the top of his lungs. "You HAVE to be kidding me!"

They are surveying the scenery from the back deck. The beach is particularly wide and deep due to the low tide. The water is crystal clear, sun drenched and blue as the sky. Seagulls dive and pitch and squawk.

"That's just the back fucking YARD ! Wait'll you see inside!"

And they're off again. I follow, catching the door before it shuts in my face.

It's okay to feel left out, I chant to myself. This is normal. Curt is allowed to fuss over his friend and play the show-off for a while.

I move into the kitchen and plug in the kettle, and begin heating up a lunch of chicken with Spanish spices, Spanish rice, and Spanish noodles. I check the fridge for beer, for Jim. Hopefully the eight bottles that Curt insisted on will be enough.

In the background, upstairs, I hear them walking quickly from room to room. There is always a brief pause, followed by Jim's room-clearing cackle and shrieked curse word.

Now suddenly & hurriedly they are descending the stairs, with Curt swinging him round to look through the french doors.

"Check it out."

"Holy _shit!"_ Jim shouts as Curt opens the doors. "It's like a fucking 30 man jacuzzi!"

"The size of a small olympic fucking sized pool," I hear Curt offer as they walk outside.

I set the table out on the deck for three and sit down to rest. It's all been a bit of a whirlwind, and I'm really beginning to feel it. Well, one hurdle is crossed- I've met Jim, now comes the tough part- playing hostess for the next 24 hours. Plenty of time for him to find out how shallow and uncool and stiff I am, that he hates me, and that I'm not worthy of his best friend.

After several minutes of pondering such things, my stomach is pitching with nerves. I re-enter the kitchen to check on the food, only to see the two of them bounding down the stairs in bathrobes. I barely have time to turn around when Curt plants a kiss on my cheek, and explains they're going for a quick swim. "Quick" of course for Curt, meaning an hour.

I sigh and turn off the stove, and sit out on the deck again, to watch.

Don't be an ass. Don't feel the pang of jealously that you're feeling. It's Curt and his best friend whom he hasn't seen in a while. Keep the pissiness at bay.

I'm worried though. Even in the best case scenario, that Jim and I hit it off, I'm afraid of what the dynamic of three men in a tub will do to my mood, and that Curt will inevitably pick up on it, and we'll have a row, here on the eve of our wedding. I've had him to myself this whole time and I can't help it- I don't want to share.

Whose idea was it to invite Jim here a day early?

Oh ya; you, the arsehole sitting on the deck, alone.

* * *

><p>Down on the beach I see the two men drop their robes onto the lounge chairs, and then take off, buck naked, laughing, running at full bore for the water, which is twenty meters off, or more. Unfortunately for me they start off close enough that I have a clear view of Jim's ass, which is as pale, scrawny and shapeless as the rest of him. My eyes can't help but compare the two sets of cheeks. Curt's are tight and strong and athletic, and yet round and full and shapely. It's an old theory of mine. People think men need to be angular to be handsome- sharp masculine angles without corners or curves, while in my book, the shaplier and curvier, a la Curt, the better.<p>

They have hit the water and both dive in head first. Clearly they are having some sort of competition, here. Funny to see Curt engaging in such things- I've never pictured him as terribly competitive, and this too begins niggling at me. I hate that I'm finding something out about him I didn't know the day before we are to be married.

_Well what do you expect? You've only known him a few months._

I sag in place.

I sit up.

No. This is _normal_. There is nothing more normal in the world than pre-marital jitters. Stop letting it bother you.

I take a deep, long breath and retreat into the kitchen. I'm hungry. They could be gone for hours. I sit down to eat a plate of cold chicken and read the bloody newspaper.

After a half hour or so, the door opens. I turn to look, and it's Jim, in his robe, running a towel through his hair. I look behind him for Curt and when I don't see him, my stomach immediately clenches. I'm not comfortable being alone with him without Curt at least being there as a buffer. But perhaps it's best we get it over with. This will be where it will begin, the awkwardness, the realization on his part that I'm a spoiled, insufferable upperclass twit. That I'm not good enough. That Curt and I are wrong for each other in every way.

Exactly how much sway do you have with him? I want to ask. Will you whisper it into his ear all day, into the night and make him change his mind? Is that the _real_ reason you've come?

He smiles. "Hi. Is he in here?"

"No. I thought he was swimming with you."

"Oh he was, but I lost track of him like ten minutes ago. I thought he might've come inside. He swims a lot further out than I dare to."

I bolt past him and run down the stairs, shielding my eyes with my hand, squinting hard, something I'm well familiar with, until I spot the blonde head bobbing and turning in the water.

I turn, and Jim is standing on the deck looking at me.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to scare you. He swims like a fish. I'm sure he'll be fine."

My face colors as I shakily ascend the steps and walk inside. Great. Fantastic. He's looking at me thinking: _nervous, overbearing ninny. Pussy._

I try to smile. "No, I just … I … I can't help it. I'm guess I'm a bit overprotective. It's stupid, I know."

"No it's not," he smiles. "I'm exactly the same way, man. I mean, I know we come off harsh with each other, but Curt's like my brother- we're closer than brothers, actually. And with all he's been through, ya can't help but wanna watch out for the guy."

Wow. Okay.

I sit. Before I can stop it, it's come tumbling out of my mouth.

"I just don't want you to think your best friend is marrying this stupid, frilly little pussy."

He bursts out laughing. Right away I'm relieved I didn't hold back, but I'm not entirely sure why. I could be wrong, but it just feels as though the ice, the tension between us, has been broken.

"Shit, Curt _needs_ a stupid frilly little pussy!"

My heart sinks and I frown, not realizing at first that he's teasing me.

"No man, I'm kidding!" he shouts. "I don't think of you that way! Curt's told me a whole fuck of a lot about you and I know you're for real and a cool guy or he wouldn't be into you. But at the same time, it's partly true that he needs somebody to 'pussy' him, if you'll pardon the expression. He's been a mess his whole fucking life. So I'm only all too happy if you fill that role."

He sits by me at the table. It occurs to me that between the two of us, we represent Curt's past and his future.

"He's told me a lot about you, too. You've been an incredibly loyal friend. You've stuck by him the whole way. I really admire that."

"Ya, it hasn't been easy, I'll tell ya."

"I can't imagine. I've only heard the horror stories- you were actually there."

He shrugs.

"Ya, well once you save your buddy from offing himself a half dozen times, the shock sorta wears off."

I look at him.

Should I tell him?

I will.

"I've done that."

He nods.

"Ya. He told me."

I'm flabbergasted.

"Jesus. When did he tell you?"

"The next day."

"But …" I'm scanning my brain. The next day Curt was _here_, and I don't remember him making any phone calls. In fact I've never even seen him on the phone even once while we've been here, unless it was to call Maria or take a call from her.

Jim looks at me.

"Brian, I'm sorry to have to be the one to spill the beans, but Curt and I talk over the phone every few days when you're in the shower, or sometimes in the middle of the night when you're asleep. He's an insomniac, like me." He grins and chuckles. "Sorry. Your phone bill's gonna be through the roof."

I look off, astonished. I had absolutely no idea.

Jim touches my hand momentarily.

"Don't be mad at him. He can't help himself- it's what he does when he's in love. His brain explodes and he has to tell me everything; he chomps at the bit- he chomps _through_ the fucking bit; he paces around in circles and he can never fucking wait."

"I … understand. I just don't know why he didn't tell me. I wouldn't have stopped him."

"I think he just wanted his privacy. I think he was afraid you'd be pissed off and upset that he was talking so much about you two to someone else."

I want to be annoyed, but how can I be? Sitting before me is the man who had to tell Curt to his face that Michael had hung himself. They've been through the absolute ringer together; truly to hell and back; their connection is as deep as can possibly be. It makes sense that they'd talk about us.

"No, I'm not mad. Just surprised, I guess. It's okay, though."

"Good."

I look at him. Jim knows a lot about me, more than I'd even realized, and he's a wealth of information about the man I love, the man I want to know everything about. I ask. I have to.

"So how often has he put you through this before? The midnight calls, I mean?"

Translation: just exactly how often has he _been_ in love? It's an innocent enough question, I figure.

He leans over to his bag and pulls out a pack of cigs. Brothers indeed.

"Is it okay if I smoke?"

"Go ahead." I push an ashtray toward him and sit back, all ears.

"Well, you know … it was the same way with Michael, and sort of with Angela, too, though I don't think he was in love with her- he was too shut down, then."

I nod.

"Yes."

"But either way, he tends to call me every five fucking minutes." He squints and looks up, thinking. "Then after that there was Sue, and um, then Donna, and … what the fuck was her name … Abby! I'm sure he's told you."

I clear my throat. I blink. I nod as if I've heard all about Sue, Donna and Abby.

"But shit, that was all years ago now- those chicks were when Curt was using. Then there was that long, long dry spell, until … oila! Brian Slade!"

He laughs.

"Suddenly I'm getting these calls at 4am again. Curt, all groggy, and each time I'm panicking thinking he's out of it, he's back on smack, but it was only his just-woke-up-and-fell-outta-bed-reaching-for-the-phone voice. And he's like 'Man, you gotta minute?' and I'm like 'Curt you asshole, I was asleep!'"

We both laugh. I'm really beginning to like Jim.

"Then he's like 'I can't think about anything else, it's driving me completely fucking crazy', meaning _you_, Brian,"

I sit up proudly, my grin rapidly spreading.

"And I'm like, 'you're fucking driving _me_ crazy, fucking idiot !'"

We laugh again.

"But the difference with you, compared with all the others, if I may say, was obvious. I could instantly tell he was gone for, like head over heels, totally outta control fucking _smitten_- I'd never heard him like that before in my life, not even close. I mean, it's not really fair to compare it with how he felt about Michael because he was just a kid then. After he met you, Brian, he's calling me and practically crying into the phone he was so confused and excited and scared and happy and fucked up." He grins at me. "It did a number on him, let me tell you. It was a trip. So I wasn't all that surprised when he called me and said he was fucking getting married."

He laughs.

"What do you think of it? I really want to know. The marriage thing."

"Me? I think it's cool. It's great. Typical Curt," he chuckles. "He's a romantic motherfucker," he grins slyly, "but then you already knew that." He looks at me. "And just so you know, he's not in the habit of doing this- proposing to people. He's never asked anybody else. And after Michael, up til he met you, it was pretty much all girls, so he could've asked any of 'em, but thankfully he didn't. They were nightmares, skanked up junkie chicks. I think half the reason he thought he was in love was because of the junk – it tends to fogs up the brain."

I blurt.

"Oh, were you–?" then stop myself.

"No it's okay. It's a logical question- Curt used for years, and you're wondering if I as his best friend did too. No, I didn't. I was too chickenshit for that stuff. Curt's more adventurous; he's always been. He tends to dive into things with both feet, y'know?"

"Yes," I smile.

"I mean that literally as well. Have you ever seem him stage dive?"

I laugh.

"Yes! Twice! First time I ever laid eyes on him he did it!"

"He's nuts, I swear to Christ. I keep tellin him he's gonna break his fucking balls."

I hear footsteps on the deck and Curt, stark naked, opens the screen door, hair dripping into the towel round his neck.

"Who's gonna break their fucking balls?" he asks.

"Who do you think? _You_, asshole! Brian and I were just discussing how fucking stupid you are."

Jim is raising the cig to his mouth. Curt reaches and swipes it from him and brings it to his own lips.

"Thanks, man."

He moves into the room and sits opposite me, next to Jim, who looks him up and down.

"What, so _you_ get to walk around naked but _I_ don't?"

"Nobody wants to see you naked, Jimmy."

Jim crosses his arms in front of him and plays mock hurt.

"Why are you so cruel, man? Not everybody can be pretty like you, y'know."

Curt ponders this a moment, then nods.

"True."

I grin.

There is a beat, after which, they both burst out laughing.

"So where the fuck were you? Fucking wuss. Can't spend an hour in the water with me?"

"Curt, I told you, I'm fucking wasted from no sleep for like two straight days."

He reaches out a hand and pats Jim on the shoulder.

"Ya, you're right. Sorry. Totally forgot. Why don't you hit the sack? I'll come wake you in an hour or two. Just go pass out. It's cool. We got all day; it's still early."

Jim stands. I look at him.

"You're not hungry? Maybe a quick bite before bed?"

"No, thank you, Brian. I'll eat after I get up, if that's okay."

I walk him to the only spare bedroom in the house, just off the kitchen next to the stairs, and point out the extra pillows and blankets, and then leave, shutting the door behind me with a click.

I stand next to Curt's chair and run a hand up his dripping scalp. As if he didn't look outrageously sexy enough, sitting here wet and naked, he goes and pulls slowly on the cig and exhales. My knees waver slightly.

"How was the water?"

"Amazing as always."

I drop a soft hand to his jaw and whisper to him.

"That's how you look to me right now- amazing, as always."

I lower my face, turn my head to kiss him, and am hit with a wave of that musky saltwater scent. It's become a bit of an aphrodisiac for me. When we kiss, I can even taste saltwater in his mouth.

"Did you swallow out there?"

"Ya, a bit more than usual."

"I wish you'd be careful."

I stand behind him, pull the towel from his neck, and run it down that fine broad back, over his shoulders and arms and chest, and then up into his hair, eyes popping the whole way.

Jesus, I shouldn't be doing this.


	53. Jim part 2

"What were you guys talking about?"

I smile.

"You. We don't have anything else in common."

"Well I thought he was maybe asking you about the house or something. What was it about balls?"

"He was just telling me about your stage diving and how he fears for your balls."

He nods.

"Ya, he tells me that every time. He says if I'm gonna dive, I should do it _backwards_."

I look down. It can't be helped.

"He might have a point."

"So what else did he say?"

I sit next to him and pull the chair close, and grin in his face.

"He said it was obvious you were madly in love with me- he knew right away."

He smiles shyly.

"Ya, well I'm not exactly hard to read about that stuff, am I?"

"He also mentioned three names I've never heard before."

He looks at me, hesitant.

"_What_ three names?"

"Sue, Abby, and Donna."

His face sours.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Why is he bringing up _those_ fucking witches? Who cares! It's ancient fucking history!"

"But it's _your_ history, Curt."

"But that …" he sighs, exasperated, "that's all smack-related shit. You don't need to know about that stuff. It's immaterial. All three of those girls were ones I hooked up with when I was using, and all of 'em were horrid skanks. Two of them od'd. The other one left me for her fucking _dealer_."

"Don't get so defensive. We're about to be married. It's okay for me to know these things."

"I know, Brian, but I guess I just …" he looks at me. "It's embarrassing. It makes me feel like such a loser. That's who I used to be. I'm not that person anymore."

I touch his face.

"I know, my angel. Jim knows, too. It's just that we both care about you and we both have that one thing in common, so it's natural we'd talk about you, even if it's old stories and old flames."

He thinks about this a minute.

"Okay. You're right, but the other thing is … I sorta feel sometimes like there's an imbalance here. I don't know a whole lot about your old flames."

I laugh.

"That's because I haven't had nearly as many relationships as you have. Mandy's taken up and wasted five whole years of my life, which brings me all the way back to age 20, and other than you, I haven't had any serious relationships during that time - just a million one night stands. Before that, there were a couple of girls, and one boy, but it was nothing. No great love affairs. They were over pretty much before they started." I grin. "You're really the first person I've been seriously in love with, ever, Curt."

I lean in and kiss him softly. He's still slightly pouty.

"Don't be upset, my angel."

"I'm not. I'm alright. I'm just a bit annoyed with Jim right now, that's all."

I place a hand on his shoulder and stand.

"I know. Don't be, though. He means well." I move into the kitchen area. "You hungry?"

"Ya."

I turn on the stove and walk quickly back to Curt, standing behind him to kiss the top of his head. I let my arms dangle round his neck, and yes, I look down. Just because one is on a diet, doesn't mean one can't _look_.

There his lovely cock rests, in repose, against that beautiful strong tanned damp thigh. Instantly the images flood my brain; the innumerable plans I have for it, the ways in which I intend to stimulate and torment it. It is, I admit, a bit like a toy. A man-toy; something to play with, to play serious games with, to befriend, to win over, to watch respond, and then, if victorious, to drink from.

I shake my head quickly. Why must everything lead directly to blowjobs? Why must that be my _thing_?

Because it _is_. You're a bottom, through and through. Don't apologize for it.

"So what else did he tell you?"

I blink.

"Nothing."

"Come on. You sat here for like 20 minutes."

"It wasn't that long." I clear my throat. "He told me about the middle of the night phone calls."

His head drops.

"Fuck."

I sit down, facing him, close.

He looks at me, embarrassed.

"I was gonna tell you. I kept meaning to, but I kept chickening out. I'm sorry."

I laugh softly.

"It's okay."

"Brian, it's just that … Jim's always, always been my sounding board, about anything _important_, anyway. And I'm his."

I smile.

"It's okay, my darling boy. I'm flattered actually. It was a reflection of how 'smitten' you were, he said, so I can't exactly be mad at you, can I?"

He smiles shyly.

"I'll pay you back out of my record sales. I swear."

I laugh.

"It's just a phone bill, Curt. Don't worry about it."

"But it'll probably be a lot of money."

"You forget. I _have_ a lot of money. Bucketloads."

I lean in for a quick kiss.

"I just wish you'd felt comfortable enough to tell me, but I understand."

"I was going to. Sorry. I feel like a schlub."

_"Don't_. So that's all Jim and I talked about. Nothing terribly juicy, really. Don't be upset at him, okay? I want you two to have fun today. You don't need to bring me along with you- I'll just be in your way."

"I _wanna_ bring you along."

"Too bad, I'm not going. I'll stay at the house and relax. I need it, before our big day. So do you- don't go nuts, okay?"

"I won't." He smiles sexily and whispers in that gravel tone. "I'm thinking more about our big _night_, myself."

I smile with him and move in close.

"Oh, _I'm_ not. I'm not thinking about sex at _all_. Not once since you walked in the room just now."

"Fucking liar."

We kiss softly. Our lips linger a moment, and we kiss again, then pull back momentarily.

Just these small things, these kisses, sitting so close to his body, the scent of him …

It can't be helped.

I look at him. I whisper directly into his mouth.

"Not once have I pictured sucking you off, for instance."

"Brian, _Jesus_."

I continue, speaking slowly, hovering in his face.

"Not once have I seen myself on my knees, licking and lapping away at that beautiful cock …"

He blinks hard and licks his lips. He exhales breathily.

"… while you grab onto my head with both hands, controlling it."

"Fuck."

He grabs my scalp and mashes his mouth into mine, hard. After a breathless, bruising minute, he pulls back slightly and looks at me.

Oh god. He's waiting for me to go on. He is.

What can a bottom do, but gulp, and comply?

"I haven't seen myself, even once, teasing you, bringing you right to the edge, and then stopping."

He's stock-still, rapt. I whisper directly into his mouth. I can't stop myself.

"I haven't once seen you, in frustration, pushing that big swollen head … right into my throat."

"Ohgod," he blurts quickly, and grabs me roughly for a particularly deep, lengthy kiss. When he finally pulls back, his lids are weighted, and the both of us are panting. My god but I want him.

I let him see my eyes tilt downward, ogling, before meeting his again. I tremble. I can see that his cock is thickening.

"The truth is, Curt, about a thousand times already today, I've pictured you coming …"

He licks parted lips.

"About a thousand times I've seen myself sucking it straight out of your balls."

His lids close and open slowly.

"Fuck, Brian."

"But I don't stop there, do I?"

I hover closer. I extend my tongue and lick his cheek.

"I keep sucking you."

A small, breathy moan escapes his lips.

I lick again. My whisper is at it's throatiest.

"And _sucking_ you. But it's gentle, like I'm nursing your cock, and when you're finally done … when I've sucked you completely dry …"

I tilt my eyes downward again. We're both hard.

"… I go over you with my tongue … and lick you clean."

His chest is heaving softly. It and his face are flushed. He lowers his own eyes, before raising them again and whispering breathily.

"You got a filthy fucking mouth, you know that?"

I nod in his face.

"Yes."

I gulp.

He's laid it out for me. He has.

"Why don't you let me show you how filthy?"

The energy between us, the sizzling tension and heat, is causing invisible explosions, tiny sparks to fly all around us in the room. The look that we exchange at this moment is that of two people rationalizing that what they're about to do, on the eve of their wedding, is inevitable, unstoppable, and somehow, not cheating.

I slide off the chair and drop to my knees. There's absolute pandemonium in my insides, which are hopping about and bumping into each other in joy and delirium, chanting ecstatically, _"We're going to suck Curt! We're going to suck Curt!"._

I look, worshipping with my eyes. Oh god; here is his cock, well preserved, at long last. I reach. My hand grasps the base. I grip it tighter than normal, as a way to calm the violent tremor reverberating through me. He is swollen and plump and warm to the touch and as I lower my head, I smell salt from the ocean. It feels literally like years since I've been here. My mouth waters. Lips part wide. He shuts eyes, and lays his head slightly back, in that unspeakably erotic gesture of surrender …

And at this precise, super-charged, highly delicate moment, directly behind us, the motherfucking, MOTHERFUCKING door opens, followed instantly by a single, cheerfully blurted word.

_"Oops!"_

I leap up so quickly my knee slams into the edge of Curt's chair. I cry out and grab it and hop around in place like one of the Three Stooges.

Curt flies out of his seat and throws the bunched up towel against himself.

He snaps.

"Jimmy, what the fuck are you DOING?!"

Jim shouts back.

"I'm sorry! I have to take a wicked piss! What the fuck were YOU doing? !"

Jim moves into the bathroom, nonchalant as can be, leaving the door wide open as he does his business.

Curt bellows at him.

"What did it LOOK LIKE? ! I was about to get my DICK SUCKED!"

Jim finishes, and comes out.

My face is purple. I hobble to the other side of the kitchen and rub my knee, leaning on the counter, half turned away. If Jim looks at me, in my eyes he'll see only sharp, angry daggers.

He speaks softly and … the bastard actually has the nerve to grin.

"Well then it's a goddam good thing I came out here, isn't it?"

Jesus. He knows! Fucking guy knows _everything_ about us!

"You don't have to hide your dick from me, Curt. I've seen it about a hundred million times."

"You've never seen me hard!" Curt snaps.

Jim cocks his head to the right.

"What are you nuts? Yes I have! Like 30 times! Remember?!"

Remember WHAT?! I'm thinking.

Jim persists.

"Jennifer Jenkins? That name ring any bells for ya?"

Who the fuck is Jennifer Jenkins? ! I want to scream. And what on earth could she possibly have to do with you seeing Curt's hard-on ?!

Curt shouts at the top of his lungs.

"FUCK Jennifer Jenkins and FUCK _YOU_! Get yourself a FUCKING HOTEL!"

He storms past.

_"I'm taking a COLD MOTHERFUCKING SHOWER! You'd better be gone by the time I'm done!"_

He bolts angrily up the stairs, two at a time.

I turn completely towards the counter, leaning over it in frustration and misery.

Jim doesn't take my exceedingly obvious hint. He in fact pulls out the chair Curt just vacated, the one that's still warm from his naked body, the one in which I came _this close_ to sucking him off, and sits right down in it.

Really, has he NO tact?

"Sorry, Brian. Rotten fucking timing."

My jaw is grinding but I manage to spit out a response.

"It's okay. You ah … you didn't know." I clear my throat. "Sorry about the hotel."

I turn. He waves his hand in the air.

"Oh, shit, he didn't mean it. He'll be thanking me tomorrow."

I look at him, astonished. I want to strangle that skinny neck, for being so motherfuckingly flip about this, and for him knowing of our plans of holding off to begin with. Not that the latter is his fault.

"Um, I don't know. I think he was serious."

I'm certainly hoping so.

He shakes his head.

"Nah. If he was that pissed off he woulda decked me." He laughs. "We've decked each other a lot over the years."

"Or maybe he just doesn't want you showing up at his wedding with a black eye."

Though _I_ would have no problem with this.

"I think he's genuinely angry," I continue.

He looks at me and begins speaking softly, and earnestly.

"Brian, we both know how much the wedding night, the virgin thing, means to Curt. What it represents to him. Healing, a new beginning, all that."

A surge of guilt passes through me. My voice is small.

"Ya."

He looks off, pensive.

"It's immeasurable, I think. I was … I'm sorry to bring this up, but I was around him after the rape. He was … catatonic. He stopped functioning. He just sorta ceased to exist. It was incredibly painful to watch. I think what those motherfuckers did to him just sort of _broke_ him."

My throat tightens. I feel a desperation not to hear this.

"I couldn't shake him out of it. Nobody could. This went on for _months_; scared the living shit out of me."

He looks back at me.

"The thing was … you have to understand: I was around when his brother was molesting him, I was there when he was getting his brains fried every week from the fucking shock treatment; I was there after Michael- _this was worse_."

My eyes fill. My guts churn and twist painfully. I'm suddenly barely able to hold myself together.

"I'm sorry. I know this is difficult to hear. I guess my point is, the story at least has a happy ending. And I don't think, Brian, that you maybe have a complete understanding of just how healing your relationship has _already_ been to Curt, just in these few short months. I can tell you, it's like night and fucking day. You kinda rescued him."

_Bingo._ Fucking _bingo_. My heart lightens, lifts, and floats on air.

"Seeing him earlier at the airport, I was _totally_ blown away. He's so obviously happy; it's coming out of his _pores_. Seriously. He looks healthier and more relaxed than I've _ever_ seen him. No bullshit."

My arteries and corpuscles are singing.

"So, y'know … the virgin thing, I think as far as he's concerned, it's the final step in the healing process, the final step to becoming healthy and finally, _finally_ offing his fucking demons."

He smiles shyly.

"So to be honest, I wanna feel bad about interrupting things just now, but … I can't. Not to say I'm not embarrassed myself and very sorry to have embarrassed you, but I sorta have the feeling right now that it was fate stepping in."

I release the breath I've been holding.

He's right, of course.

I smile. I'm beaming, in fact. I approach and lean down to hug him. I whisper.

"Thanks, Jim. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here."

He laughs.

"Wow. Are you sure? I don't think Curt is, right now."

I pat his shoulder.

"Don't worry. I'll talk to him. You're an unbelievably good and loyal friend. He knows that."

He smiles shyly.

"Thanks, Brian."

I turn for the stairs and then look back.

"I don't know if you're planning to go back to sleep but–"

"–Nah, can't. Too wide awake, now."

"Okay. If you're hungry there's … shit!"

I dive for the stove. Completely forgot it was on all this time. I rip open the door and pull out the the pan.

"Well, it's a little overdone, but it'll still be good. Do you want some?"

"Oh ya, thanks. I'll get it myself." He stands. "Smells fucking amazing."

* * *

><p>Up the stairs I head. Curt is pulling a clean shirt over his head. He's grumpy, still.<p>

"Don't be upset, my love. It was a innocent mistake. He didn't know."

He stops and looks at me.

"Brian, I could feel your breath on me. We were _this fucking close_."

"I know, my sweet. It was totally my fault. We never should have gotten to that point to begin with."

He buttons up his trousers.

"I know. I know. That's the other reason I'm pissed off. We could've ruined everything that easily."

I grin sly.

"It was my fault. If you like, you can punish me for it tomorrow night."

He won't smile.

"I don't wanna even _think_ about sex right now, Brian."

I slump.

"I know."

He sits next to me on the bed. He sighs. He takes my hand.

"I just need a little bit more time to get past it."

I put a hand on his thigh.

"I want you to forget about this and go and have fun with your best friend. Have a blast."

I kiss him on the cheek.

"Just make sure you come back to me in one piece. I worry."

"You don't have to."

"I can't help it. I love you so much it makes my heart sore."

He laughs, and keeps laughing.

"Oh, my baby, I know. I promise I won't do anything to make you worry."

I look at him.

"You won't drive too fast or run any red lights?"

"I only did that that one night. It was fucking stupid. Won't do it again."

"Promise?"

He nods.

"Promise."

I sigh.

"Okay."

"So, Jim's not getting a hotel, is he?"

I shake my head.

"He knows you better than that. He's downstairs eating my chicken. Why don't you go eat with him? I'll be down in a minute."

He pats my thigh.

"I will."

He stands and moves for the door. I call to him. He turns.

"I'm sorry. It's driving me nuts. I have to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Who's Jennifer Jenkins?"

He sighs in annoyance.

"Fucking bastard can't keep his stupid trap shut."

He walks back over to me.

"It's just a seedy little story. In a nutshell, she was a girl in high school that Jim dated, and at some point she let slip to him that she actually dug _me_, so we ended up sorta co-fucking her."

"You mean … a three-way?"

"Yes. It was her idea. She would blow me, and Jimmy would take her from behind. For some reason it was always arranged that way. Probably cuz Jimmy's better endowed than I am, and, … anyway. "

"Okay. Wow. High schoolers, though?"

"We were 16 or 17."

"How long did this go on for?"

"Like, I don't know, most of a summer, or something."

I smile.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just … I think I know why she arranged it that way."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well, because first of all, she didn't have to _see_ Jim if he was behind her, and secondly, given the choice, nobody in their right mind would choose to look up at him rather than you."

He laughs.

I touch his hand.

"So what do you have planned for today?"

"Y'know, just small stuff. Take him around on the bike and show him the island. The church, go for a hike, stuff like that. We might stop by Maria's, just to introduce a fellow Michigoneon to her. I don't know."

He meshes his fingers into mine.

"Y'know, Jim can ride. He can easily rent his own bike and the three of us can take off."

"No. You don't bring the wife along on boys' adventures. I need the quiet time right now."

I swing his hand back and forth a bit in place.

"How long will you be gone?"

He shrugs.

"Don't know. Few hours."

I look at him.

"Please don't ride like a maniac. Please."

He leans forward and kisses me.

"I told you, I won't. I promise."

He turns. I watch him walk out. My heartbeat slows.

* * *

><p>After a cleanup in the bathroom, I descend the stairs. At the table they are discussing motorbikes. A language I do not understand.<p>

"Harley, man. Totally kicks ass. Hot bike, too."

"No way, man. BMW," Curt replies. "Harley's are cool, but they're too fucking _expensive._ And showy. BMW's are for serious riders."

"How would you know!? You never even owned a bike!"

"But it doesn't mean I don't look at 'em when I see 'em on the street, Jimmy. And I did have that little dirtbike, if you recall. We'll see if my album sells; I think I might buy one if I make any money."

I maintain as much of a poker face as I can.

Jim turns to me.

"So how's the back seat ?"

"It's fine. Comfortable enough."

Curt looks at him.

"You're sure as fuck not putting your arms around me, though, dude."

"Fuck you, man, I wasn't fucking planning on it. I'd prefer our bodies didn't touch at _all_, in fact."

"Good, then just _lean the fuck away_ the whole time, okay? Otherwise, you'll get a hard-on."

"Curt, I know you secretly wish I was gay, I know you secretly wish you were marrying _me_–"

Curt bursts out laughing.

"–I know you think of me each and every time you beat off, but–"

Curt shrieks in horror.

"–Jesus Christ man, you trying to make me lose my _lunch?!"_

I'm looking back and forth between the two of them, a la Wimbledon, as they lob insults at each other, fascinated that no matter the topic, they always manage to steer the conversation round to their cocks.

The two finish eating and I rise to take the plates just as Jim is going for his.

"It's okay, I'll get it."

He sits.

"Thanks, Brian. It was really delicious. Filled me up good. You have an absolutely fucking incredible house here, if I haven't mentioned that."

"Yes, I know. I'm very lucky. It was custom built." I glance up at Curt. "Even some of the furniture."

"That beach though, man. Just – fucken WOW."

I laugh.

"I completely agree. 'fucken wow.'"

We, all three, laugh.

He turns to Curt.

"Man, I just can't get my head around that you're gonna be living here for real. Full time. This is gonna be your fucking _house_! It's just, I mean … _fuck_."

Curt grins.

"I know. Like something out of the fucking movies."

Jim turns to me as I'm rinsing the dishes in the sink.

"You shoulda seen the trailer he grew up in."

Curt winces.

"Come on, man. Let's not talk about it, okay? Let's get _going_."

"Okay, okay. I'll describe it to Brian, in detail, when we get back."

"No you won't. He doesn't wanna hear it. Bore the living christ out of him."

I'm wiping my hands on a tea towel. I smile and approach.

"Nothing about Curt is boring to me."

I kiss him quickly.

"Awww, isn't that sweet?" Jim drawls.

Curt reaches and smacks the back of his head.

"Hey!"

Curt kisses me back. He touches my face. My insides sigh with contentment.

Jim slips out the back door.

"What will you do while we're gone?"

"Just relax. Might go for a walk. I need some quiet time. Sit around and try not to be nervous about tomorrow."

"Jim's my distraction. Otherwise I'd be pulling my fucking hair out."

I run a hand up into it. I grin.

"Don't you dare." I kiss him. "I love you," I whisper. "And I can't bloody wait to marry you."

He grins.

_"Ditto."_

We kiss softly, and I reluctantly pull back to let him go. We walk through the back door together. Jim is perusing the motorbike.

"Pretty fucking cool, man. You rented the fucker?"

"Ya, a little place in town. It's practically brand new."

Curt mounts, and I, of course, pay close attention. One, two, three grunt-filled landings later, the bike kicks in and Jim hops on back, hands placed firmly on the metal bar behind him.

"Remember, no hard-ons!"

"Too late! Got a nice boner goin' already!"

… and off they head down the street.


	54. The Nature of the Thing

Our wedding could not be less legal or legitimate in the world's eyes, right? No chance in hell of ever being 'valid', or 'real'? But on the evening before the day it's to happen, try telling that to my nerves.

Ya, I know, _everybody_ knows, it's the normalest thing in the world to have pre-wedding jitters, or in my case, terrors, but I can't fucking _sleep_, nor can Brian, and we sure as hell aren't ruining the wedding night with any last second fucking around, so we lay in bed, staring off into the pitch.

"It's really gonna happen," I tell him.

He reaches for, and squeezes my hand.

"It is."

"I just can't fucking believe it," I tell him.

"Me either."

We lay there, staring, staring. Meanwhile my insecurities are eating away at me.

Finally I force down a gulp and blurt it.

"You sure you still want to?"

He drops my hand, leans up onto an elbow and _glares _like he never has, eyes enormous.

"What the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you? !_" _he snaps._ "_Of _course _I still want to!"

Trying to sound like less of a wimp, I respond with a forcibly nonchalant "Okay."

He's not falling for it.

"What in _hell_ made you ask that, Curt?"

"I-I'm just-"

"_Are you having second thoughts?"_

Me and my big fucking mouth.

"_No. No. Not at all, _I just ... look." I turn to face him. "I can't help but think about how I came at you with this out of the completely clear blue that day, sorta blindsided you with it, and-"

"-Don't be an _ass_. Yes, you asked me first; so _what_?-"

"-But-"

"-And then we came _this close_ to splitting up that time a couple of mornings later, or have you forgotten? And then I asked _you_, remember? _To marry me._ Right there in the kitchen. And you bloody well said _yes, _so I'm sure as fuck _holding_ you to that, arsehole."

There's a pause, as we both study the other's face, and then burst out into a laugh.

He lays back down to face the ceiling and grabs my hand again.

"So, all told," he says, "I'd say we're _even_. Alright?"

I pull his hand over, kiss it, and lay it on my chest.

_"Yes."_

It's not like I seriously doubted him, it's just that I'm still having a hard time getting my brain around the notion that anyone would actually wanna marry me – would actually be willing to take on this huge a fucking mess.

I turn my head to look at him.

"It's just the jitters talking. I'm full of fucking _jitters_."

He shrugs.

"S'normal."

"Ya, but … Why does it have to be so goddamn terrifying?"

He turns his face, suddenly, into my neck, and begins to laugh, so hard that his chest shakes.

"What in fuck is so _funny?"_ I finally ask.

"Oh my god ..." He's wheezing still; wiping the corner of his eyes. "_Thank you for saying that._ Because I'm _completely_ petrified, myself."

"Really?"

"_Yes_. Christ."

We're back to pondering the ceiling.

"Why do you think it is?"

"Well, God, Curt, this is, y'know … one of _the_ biggest life steps you can take, right? In life. Next to, y'know, dying."

We ponder this a moment, before bursting out laughing, each of us, at the morbid comparison, then return to our thoughts, during which it strikes me all over again – something I try to put out of my mind - that Brian has already been down this road.

I sure as _all_ fuck don't want to be thinking of the poisonous bitch. Nonsensical as may be, I'm still jealous. I can't help it. However, much as it pains me, it remains a fact that Brian, though soon to be divorced, is still, at present, legally married to someone else.

I take down a gulp of air.

"What was it like for you?"

His eyes shift to mine.

"Hmm?"

"_Before."_

He blinks a couple of times before it clicks.

"Oh god. Come on, Curt. You _know_ what happened there, and you know how I feel about it."

"But, I mean-"

"–Have you forgotten? The whole thing was borne of a lie. Near as I can tell, she tricked me by suggesting a pregnancy. We had never even _discussed_ the possibility of marriage, but suddenly we're rushing to a super quickie wedding in someone's ugly grey office. Idiotic. It wouldn't be possible for me to regret anything more than I regret that."

Marriage. Regret. Stupid as it may be, in my hyper-nervous, sleep-deprived state, the use of these terms in close proximity makes me uneasy. What if our tomorrow ends up being something we regret?

What if we end up hating each other?

He seems to read my mind. He kisses me on the cheek, clutches my elbow and lays his head on my shoulder.

"Marrying _you_, believe me, _that's_ something I can wrap my head around."

"So you won't regret it?" I blurt, sounding like an insecure douchebag all over again.

He lifts his head.

"What is _wrong_ with you tonite? _No – _of_ course _not. You're _absolutely_ the man of my dreams."

I feel a tickle in my throat, then a rumble in my belly, and pretty soon I'm laughing so hard I nearly choke.

"Holy shit," I say, wheezing. "Holy fucking shit."

"_What?" _he says, annoyed.

"You have got some _seriously_ fucked up dreams, my friend."

He snuggles down further, using my chest as a pillow.

"Shut up, arsehole. I have perfectly beautiful, rational ones-"

I look at him.

"—_Rational? _Marrying me is _not_ rational._"_

"Shut _up_. Before I divorce your ass."

"We're not even married yet!"

"And by the way; _please_. I am not your _friend_. I'm your _husband_, or, I'm about to be."

This does indeed shut me up. I stare off, trying to picture it; living in the same house, sharing meals, sharing a future, maybe even – not to jinx it, but, at some point - raising a kid.

Holy shit, indeed.

_Normalcy_.

Dullness!

I'll fucking welcome it, how 'dull' my life will be.

Raking the lawn. Walking the dog. Building a fire in the fireplace. Building a life.

With a head crammed with such images, I settle, and gradually drift off.

* * *

><p>In the morning, after a continuously fitful night complete with fucked up dreams featuring aliens and monsters, I awaken, damp, and stressed. I look. He's in the same position as last night - face up, eyes shut, lips parted, completely still.<p>

For a split second I panic, convinced he's dead, and am about to slap him to check, when he shifts slightly, and rolls over.

Right. Just what I need the morning of my wedding.

_A dead fucking groom._

Then of course my brain can't resist it ...

What if he _had_ been dead? What would I do?

Aside from cascading straight into _the_ panic attack-freakout of my entire life? I mutter to myself as I reach for a cig.

In truth? Probably off myself. I don't know that I'd hesitate.

I light up, take a loooong slow drag, and exhale into the room.

Okay. I'm not pleased it was the first thing that came to mind.

I like to think I've gotten myself past this knee jerk suicidal shit, right? Because, when you boil it down, it's really a coward's option – incredibly immature and selfish. It's what kids – no matter their biological age – ponder. And ya, okay, I guess I haven't exactly lived the life of a grown, responsible man, yet. But maybe that's part of what today is about.

Yes.

Maybe for the first time in my life, I wanna be a grown up.

* * *

><p>We barely touch our breakfast, and barely speak. Together, we're a jangle of hyper excitement, terror, and nerves.<p>

To boot, I'm feeling extra emotional, and even vulnerable. I normally consider myself a pretty fucking tough nut to crack, but today it's like my heart's been lanced open. Like at any given moment I'm liable to burst out laughing, or sobbing.

* * *

><p>In the hours before we leave, Brian organizes us. Organizes everything, really. He says it's the only thing that keeps his hands from shaking. He brushes and prepares our suits, hats, and shoes, and makes sure I'm at least reasonably presentable; makes damn sure Jimmy has the rings and knows the route absolutely without fail ("<em>You<em> are the ring bearer, understand? And we _cannot_ get married if we don't have the fucking _rings, got it?_"); prepares and tunes our guitars; without reading it, neatly folds my handwritten vows and stuffs it into my pocket and reminds me three times it's there; checks and double checks with Maria, the bishop, the florist, and the baker to be sure there are no issues; repeatedly scours the paper, and the morning news on both tv and radio to be sure it won't rain, and confirms with the limo service that we're scheduled for two big white motherfuckers.

Since we're going traditional in every way possible, we're arriving separately. Jimmy's taking the bike and getting there early. Later on, after the reception, he'll attach empty cans and a big sign on the back, for our ride home.

Yes, we're doing it - "RECIEN CASADO".

Spanish for: "JUST MARRIED".

* * *

><p>With the clock ticking away and my nerves all but shattered, I plop down at the table, trying to get my bearings, and stub out my twelfth smoke of the morning. He stops his nervous cleaning of every possible square inch of the kitchen, stands behind me, slips his arms down my torso, and lowers his face to my neck.<p>

We remain like this for a long while, leaning against each other in silence, sharing our energy and warmth ... and it pretty much does the trick. By the time he finally speaks, my heart rate has slowed.

"Sorry about the stress."

I lay a hand over his.

"S'okay."

"It's just, y'know, the nature of the thing."

"I know."

Another minute passes.

"I love you to pieces."

Oh god.

_Perfect_.

Talk about a brain-clearer. It's like in all the craziness, I'd forgotten what simple thing this entire fucking deal is about:

_Love_.

I stand. I grab his hands.

"I love you, too, baby. _Absolutely_ to pieces."

He's positively beaming, with the softest, sweetest twinkle in his eye.

"So …" He grins, "what shall we do about it?"

I laugh. I beam right back at him.

"What else?" I check the clock past his shoulder. _"Let's fucking go get married."_

* * *

><p>In the limo on the way, as it's too tall to fit on my head inside the car, I'm turning the top hat around in my hand, admiring the kickass style and craftsmanship. The way we're each dressed – traditional English gentleman's morning wear complete with tails – could not be more formal, seriously old school, or fucking balls-out classy. For the first time in forever, I feel like I look like a million bucks and find myself wondering why I don't normally make more of an effort in the fashion department.<p>

What I'm finding especially cool about this getup is that it's kind of a secret 'fuck you' to people who would expect a degenerate like me to wear rags to my own wedding. They're the same people who'd expect Brian and I to have orgies each night in our living room. Oh well. Fuck 'em. We get the last friggin' laugh.

* * *

><p>Sweet Jesus. There it is, covered in flowers - the chapel, which already sits in the most gorgeous country setting just off the road, flanked by miles of swaying, sweet smelling crops.<p>

The driver pulls up, and to my surprise, there's a little crowd outside. I'd been feeling a tad less nervous to this point, but now the mega-jitters are back.

I step out of the limo, and am rushed by a woman I don't at first recognize, she's done up so much – hairdo, heels, fancy long dress, big earrings, lipstick – who turns out to be Maria, who promptly kisses me on both cheeks, takes my top hat, and places it on my head.

"You couldn't _look_ more dashing!"

I'm then surrounded by Manuel and all of his extended family, and it appears, every guest, and then some, that was at their dinner party that night, (save for that motherfucker Miguel.) Wow. All told, there are maybe forty, forty five people - way more than I'd expected.

I'm patted on the back and shoulders, over and over congratulated, kissed, handed cigars, flowers, and an envelope which turns out to have money in it, given quick bursts of both wedding and marriage advice in both English and Spanish, repeatedly told not to be nervous, repeatedly complemented on my outfit, etc. etc., before the bishop finally comes to the rescue.

"Everyone! Give the man some room! He's getting married today!"

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I _am_.

The crowd laughs and applauds and Maria sticks two fingers in her mouth and _whistles_.

I don't find out til after that they'd done the exact same thing to Brian, who arrived several minutes ahead of me.

* * *

><p>The bishop approaches. The crowd disburses into the church. Even though we had a brief rehearsal for the whole thing the other day, my head's still spinning, so I'm especially thankful to have him act as guide.<p>

"As you will recall-" he says as we walk towards the steps.

"-No; no, I don't," I blurt.

He laughs.

"It is okay. We'll go over it now. It's a very simple ceremony." We walk through and under a big arbor/archway thing, covered in, it will only hit me later: yes(!), apples blossoms(!), the Michigan state flower (!) We proceed up the rickety few steps into the building, as he quietly reminds me of what I've already forgotten - that when the music starts – The Wedding March, of course - Brian and I will exit from our little holding cells on either end of the rear of the church, meet in the middle of the entry/vestibule thing, and then walk straight up the aisle together, side by side. (Since there ain't no 'bride', we're sure as fuck not bothering with any faux 'giving away the bride' business, or any of that crap. Besides, Brian's dad is dead, and mine is completely fucking dead, to me.)

Before heading up the aisle, Bella and Juan, Maria and Manuel's two youngest, will hand us each a single white rose, and then follow behind us, carrying baskets of flowers. They will then disappear into the crowd.

The only people who will be at the altar when we finally get there will be the bishop, and Jim, as best man and ring bearer.

Through his description I'm nodding away, glassy eyed, only half hearing him, so much have the nerves returned. He seems to sense this, as he smiles and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"Curt, do not be worried. The nervousness you are feeling is entirely normal, and is always a good sign, as it shows how seriously you take today."

I look at him. My god. _So_ friggin right.

What would have been worrying, I realize, is if I'd woken up _relaxed_.

* * *

><p>In the little sideback room, wishing like nuts I had a cig, I wait, pacing my head off, for what feels like an hour. I raise my arm and sniff. _Please_ don't let me sweat into this expensive fucking suit and stink up the place with my B.O.

Christ, I _did_ wear deodorant, didn't I? _S__haved__? Combed my hair?_

Okay, far as I remember, yes on all three. (Too late now if I hadn't, anyway ...)

I sit down in the little stool and try to remain quiet and still … which lasts all of three seconds, and then I'm up pacing again. All I keep thinking is, _P__lease__, please don't let me fuck this up. Don't let me trip __and go flying and crack my head open on a pew. Don't let me unintentionally insult the bishop, or cuss out loud in the middle of the ceremony, or split open the back of my pants. Don't let me make a complete fucking ass out of myself in front of all those people. _

I pat and reach into my left breast pocket to review my vows … and panic, as somehow, some way, _they aren't there._ Oh, holy shit. I rifle through every pocket in this getup, three, four, five, six times, somehow managing not to tear off my clothes … and … _nothing_.

_Where in hell did I put them?! I KNOW they were there! ! I KNOW it ! ! I HAD THEM ! Did they fall out onto the ground, somehow? ? Are they lying in the back seat of the frigging limo ?_

_WAY TO START OFF THIS WHOLE THING ON THE WRONG GODDAMN FOOT, WILD. _

Okay.

Shut up.

You hear me?

_Sit your stupid ass down, _and shut the fuck _up_.

_Do not panic._

It's not like there's time to, anyway, right?

Know why?

_You're fucking getting married. _

_In like, three minutes._

Now, can you remember anything you wrote?

Um, um … love … um, um, commitment … _no__!_

_Okay._ So … the only option then, is to wing it, right? Speak from the heart. That's what today is all about, right?

_Okay. Yes. Yes. I can do that._

Take a huge deep breath. Say it out loud.

"Speak from the goddamn heart. Goddammit. You _stupid_ fucking, shit-for-brains _idiot_. "

* * *

><p>A minute later and … oh holy jesus, there it is. Fucking <em>Wedding March!<em>

I take a long shaky breath, brush my hands down the front of my jacket as if to smooth out any wrinkles, and reach for the door knob. As I look down, my hand is visibly shaking.

You're alright, asshole.

Nerves = normal.

You haven't ever been 'normal', though, have you?

_No. Not even close._

Well here's your fucking chance, got it?

So _don't. Fuck. It. Up._

* * *

><p>I manage to turn the handle, and step out of the room ... and then my eyes fling open. There on the opposite end of the vestibule, stands he, in a suit that exactly matches mine - top hat, tails, poofy striped tie; whole deal, and I mean … WOWZA. Following tradition, I have not yet to seen him in his wedding attire, and somehow, stupidly hadn't imagined he could look this good.<p>

In the dressing room that time, he compared me to fucking Cary Grant and Fred Astaire. Right now I'd say those guys fucking WISHED they looked like Brian Slade. Seriously. He's just insanely, almost criminally handsome at the moment. Suave. _Debonaire_. Stunning.

* * *

><p>We walk slowly towards each other, funnily for two musicians, (I will realize later), completely out of step with the music. Before me those gigantic ice blue eyes are more and more massive as they approach; those perfect pouty plump lips spread clear across that face in a million watt, knee-weakening smile.<p>

Yes, I think. _That right there? _

_Mine._

* * *

><p>When we meet in the middle, I grab his hand, not recalling if it was part of the protocol, but not, at the moment, giving a shit.<p>

Bella and Juan appear. I look down at these children bearing flowers, little faces flushed with shyness at the celebration that they are apart of, and accept the rose, as does Brian.

There is nothing left to do, then ... but start up the aisle.


	55. A Good Day

I look. At the far end, stands the most progressive, kickass bishop that maybe ever was, a true credit to his otherwise hostile-to-queers religion, and to his side, my lifelong fellow freak – a guy who is basically both my family and my all-time best friend.

It is, indeed, a good day.

* * *

><p>As I walk hand in hand with Brian - my other family - through streams of warm, sun-streaked light, slowly past this extended Spanish family that, through the sheer goodness of their hearts and for no particular reason at all, decided to take us under their wing and engineer nearly every aspect of this day ... I feel it in my heart, in my gut. Something odd. Something powerful and strange:<p>

That … contrary to my long-held beliefs, I am not, in fact, cursed.

What I am, somehow ... is _blessed_.

* * *

><p>At the altar – <em>the altar! <em>- we give each other a nervous, disbelieving glance before dropping hands and taking deep breaths. To help ward off nerves, I then shoot the guy above us, the one on the cross with the ginormous staring eyes, a _look ..._and then even a bit if a _wink._

_I'm pretty sure you're cool with this, _the wink says. _Even if your followers'd fucking kill us if they knew, apparently you're an all around alright guy, and you can definitely read hearts, so you KNOW we aren't fucking around here; you know this is the real deal ..._

* * *

><p>The bishop turns his head and nods at Angelina, providing the cue for the end of her organ playing. She stands and quickly scurries into the pews behind us. I catch Jimmy's eye, and he give me a big, warm, and … is it? Yes. <em>Proud<em> grin.

* * *

><p>"Today," the Bishop begins, "we gather on this beautiful island, inside this consecrated building, to celebrate the most important thing that there is on earth: <em>love. <em>We are here, all of us, to witness and proclaim the joining together of these two men, in marriage."

_Jesus fucking Christ – the sound of it! _

"We share in the joy that Brian and Curt feel during this truly momentous day. By our presence, we celebrate with them the love they have discovered in each other, and wholeheartedly support their decision to commit themselves to one another for the rest of their lives."

My god. Are these words really being spoken? Is this really happening?

"And as part of this sacred ceremony, " he continues, "we will now have a reading from the Bible." He looks into the crowd. "Maria?"

She approaches quickly, stands at the podium to our side, and clears her throat a bit too loudly into the microphone, as she opens the Book.

"A reading from the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians," she says, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. "If I give away all that I possess, piece by piece, but I am without love, it will do me no good. Love is patient and kind. It is never jealous, boastful or conceited. It is never rude or selfish. It does not take offense. It is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people's pain, and delights in the truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure. Most importantly," she says, looking up, "_love does not come to an end."_

Yes. God. Absolutely beautiful. Brian and I glance at each other. _Please. Please let it be true for us_.

Maria then speaks to the place. "This next thing isn't a reading from anything. It's just something I wrote, when thinking of my son, and of today." She peers in at what looks like a handwritten note.

"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved, for ourselves. If there is anything better than being loved, it is loving. Love is the union of two individuals in heart, body, mind, and spirit. God is love, and God is perfect. Therefore, _God does not make a love that is_ _wrong_."

_Wow_ … just … _shit_. Simple. Perfect, indeed.

She shoots me a smile before scurrying back into the crowd. I can't wait to tell her thank you. For that. For everything.

* * *

><p>"And now," the bishop says. "Brian and Curt will exchange vows."<p>

Oh god. Already? Shit.

We turn to each other. Brian reaches into his pocket and nervously unfolds a piece of paper. His voice is soft.

"Um, this is just a poem-thing, by a favorite poet of Curt and I, called e.e. cummings."

Wow. Fantastic. Only problem being that now he'll blow the place away, and I'll look like an ass.

"I thank you," he begins, "for most this amazing day;

for the leaping greenly spirits of trees  
>and a blue true dream of sky<p>

and for everything  
>which is natural,<p>

which is infinite,

which is _yes_."

_Which is yes_ – I silently word the phrase along with him – his favorite bit, and mine.

He glances shyly, briefly at the bishop, then back down at his crumbled bit of paper, and mumbles.

"Um, this next thing is just something I wrote shortly after Curt and I first met, during the period when we were separated for six excruciating weeks."

There is a small ripple of sympathetic laughter from the crowd, and even from the Bishop, which takes Brian by surprise. He looks up, mildly embarrassed, and says into the air by way of explanation, "I was trying to understand, and I guess, to manage, the intensity of my feelings."

I peer in at him, wondering what in hell he's going to say. He's never told me.

_I'm falling harder than I've ever fell before_

_I'm falling faster, hoping I'll land in your arms_

_All _

_my _

_time _

_is spent _

_longing to belong_

_to you._

My god, I think. Just make me fall over and die.

_I dream of circles perfect, _(he continues)

_Eyes within your face,_

_My heart's an open wound _

_that only you'd replace. _

_And though the moon is rising _

_Can't put your picture down._

_Love is a frightening way to fall. _

_I may be dreaming, yes,_

_but I'm longing to belong ..._

_to you._

My. God. I can't believe it. He's absolutely gone and summed it up, perfectly, in just a few words - _everything_ he and I have been through these last few months, everything we've felt and thought and struggled with – the terrors, the hopes, the desires, the need, the _longing_. Who knew the capacity it held – Brian Slade's supposedly cold businessman's heart?

I'm trying to convey it to him with my eyes: how moved, how bowled over I am. How blown away. How in love.

(So can we just go ahead and end the ceremony right here, then? Because, okay? _I forgot my fucking vows,_ and I'd rather not people know that, and I don't wanna ruin everything, and I don't wanna hurt Brian, and besides, how exactly am I supposed to follow that up? ...)

He tilts his head a bit and speaks softly into the room.

"And the last thing I wanna say is just …" His eyes water, and he grabs my hand. "that you _own my heart_, Curt Wild. _I love you – so much - more than anyone else on this planet. _And I always, always will. I _promise_. _That's my vow."_

_Oh god, _I think, my own eyes filling._ Stop_. _I won't be able to fucking speak! _

He flicks the tears off his cheeks with his thumb, stuffs the piece of paper into his pocket, and pulls another one out, placing it in my hand.

"I found it in the driveway," he whispers, with a small grin.

I look down.

_MY VOWS! !_

I resist the urge to jump up and down in place, sniffle, clear my throat, carefully open up the crumpled paper, blink back the tears, and swallow hard.

"Um," I say, my voice wobbly, "I, um, funnily enough, _also_ wrote some stuff during that six weeks." There is some soft chuckling from the crowd. "And at other times, since meeting Brian." I take a steadying breath. "I'll read that in a second. This thing here I really dig. It's an ancient poem, from the twelve hundreds, by this Persian poet called Rumi, and it just ... somehow perfectly sums things up, for me."

I glance up at him briefly. He won't have heard this before – I don't think he even knows who Rumi is, and in fact, his eyebrow arches slightly. I look down at the paper. I read.

_I swear, _

_since seeing your face_

_the whole world is fraud and fantasy,_

_the garden is bewildered as to what is leaf or blossom,_

_the distracted birds can't distinguish seed from grass._

_Just know, that from the minute I heard of the notion of a love story,_

_I started looking for you._

_But I learned lovers don't finally meet somewhere,_

_they're in each other all along._

When I look up again, I can tell he's teetering on the edge of a full blown gush – eyes soft, tooth dug into lower lip, chest out, hand open, in the center, flat against it.

Good, I smile. _Worked_.

I look back down. "Um, this next thing isn't exactly poetry – I don't know how to write that stuff - but it's, um, extremely sincerely felt."

I clear my throat. Here goes ...

_I see the world.  
>Feel the chill.<br>Which way to go.  
>Window sill.<em>

_I see the words  
>On a rocking horse of time.<br>I see the birds in the rain._

_Dear world, can you see me now?_

_I am myself. Survived, somehow.  
>I'll ride the wave where it takes me.<br>I'll hold the pain._  
><em>Release me.<em>

_Oh, dear world, can you see me now?_

_I am myself. Loved, somehow.  
>Baby, I'll wait up in the dark for you to speak to me.<br>I'll open up.  
>Release me.<em>

Okay. It's a bit cryptic, maybe. I drop my hand to my side, having no idea if I just did indeed make an ass of myself. I was trying to speak to the notion of letting go, finally – riding the wave, which is extra fitting, considering where we are and that I'm in the water every day – as a metaphor for learning to trust, and ending up _not_ fucked over, but instead, rescued – the very thing - the number one thing, in fact - that Brian fantasizes about.

"_Beautiful!_" shrieks a loud voice behind us, which of course, turns out to be Maria's. The bishop immediately shoots her an unhappy look.

"Um," I laugh, grateful for the momentary break in intensity, "what I meant is," I go to say … but stumble a moment as I look into his face, blown back by the sincerity there, the raw emotional purity, the unabashed _love_ laid bare for the world to see …

I mean. Holy fucking _shit_.

My throat fills, my eyes ... I drop the paper, grab his hand and jump ahead of the words. "What I meant is," I say, barely hanging on, the tears clinging to my lashes, "that I _owe this man my life." _My voice cracks._ "_And_ I love him more than the whole world, more than anyone I've ever known,_ and I always will." The tears jump off his lids and trickle downward, as I add with a whisper: _"It's true, baby."_ And then, louder: "That's absolutely my vow."

We stand here, he and I, melting into very messy, very public piles of goo, and for a moment the earth falls away, and it's just the two of us, buzzing, tingling, electric – fed and nourished by the other's presence, needing nothing, needing no one ...and it strikes me, the intensity of the feeling – almost like a drug – that is the bliss of 'oneness' – long sought by poets and philosophers, infinitesimally rare and yet so necessary for our existence as human beings … and here are we, two reject _queers,_ supposedly unwelcome by the church we are standing in, by the man peering down at us …

* * *

><p>The bishop clears his throat. I look up.<p>

Wow. A bishop ain't supposed to let things like a wedding ceremony get to him, right?

* * *

><p>"We know," he says, looking out at the crowd and then at us, "that marriage is not created by ceremonies and legal documents. We know that true marriage occurs in the hearts and minds of two people who choose one another above all others."<p>

He glances briefly at the crowd, then back at us.

"Today we declare that, from this day forward, Brian and Curt, you will be married in your hearts, and in the hearts of those present, and in the eyes, I feel, of God."

Wow. This last bit hits me extra hard. In a day of total and utter surrealness, the idea that God, a thing I don't even really believe in, but … the idea that somehow the gods, or fates, or history, or the world, or the forces of nature, or whatever, would actually, when it all came down to it, _prove to be on our side,_ is just … phew! Truly mind-bending. Impossible to take in.

"And now," he continues, "we will ask these two men to join hands."

Oh god. Oh fuck.

We turn, facing each other, and do so. Our expressions reflect that this is the _dead fucking serious _part_._

What he says next though, while expected, is still so shocking, I almost pass out.

"Brian," he says, "do you take Curt to be your wedded husband and life partner?"

Oh god. Oh god, we're here already? !

He looks me dead in the eye, squeezes my hand _hard – _almost making me wince - nods, and says it, with assuredness, without hesitation.

"_I do."_

_Shit! ! _

The bishop turns. It suddenly feels like I have a bright spotlight on me.

"Curt, do you take Brian to be your wedded husband and life partner?"

I'm trying to keep it together, I am, but my body breaks out into what feels like hives, and I'm suddenly finding it near-to-impossible to breathe. The sound of it, when it finally comes, is choked and wheezy, this first time I've ever in my life said the two magic words:

"_I do."_

We look at each other, in total disbelief, and then … belief. _We've done it. _

Well, almost.

"Brian," the Bishop says, looking at him, "please repeat after me: I call on those present to witness that I, Brian, take you, Curt, to be my wedded husband, and partner in life."

Brian's eyes dart back to mine. It's impossible to describe how much there is going on in them. Warmth and color and life. Hope and relief and promise and joy. Beautiful eternity.

He says it, grabbing onto my hand even tighter, and repeats the remainder of the bishop's words:

"I pledge to share my life openly with you, to care for you, and encourage you through all the changes of our lives. I make this pledge to you as my friend and companion. I pledge to love you as long as we both shall live."

As I am made to repeat these same extraordinary, truly life altering words, my face flushes, tongue thickens, and, mid way through, voice almost gives out again, necessitating a mega throat-clearing disguised as a cough.

The bishop then turns to Jimmy and gives him a slight nod. As he fishes into his pocket, screaming out loud in my head is:

_You'd better GODDAMN have those RINGS!_

Our eyes fix nervously on him ... and then there they are, sparkling silver, and shining gold.

* * *

><p>The bishop turns to us.<p>

"You have chosen to exchange rings today. Rings are perfect circles, symbolizing the unbroken unity of love. They represent the truth of life: as you give to each other, you receive from each other. As you give your love, understanding, and compassion to each other, it will be returned to you ten fold."

Then, _oh. my. sweet. JESUS!. _Before I have time to process it ... Brian's grabbed my left hand, and is holding it out in front of me.

"Repeat after me," says the bishop to him, _"With this ring, I marry you."_

He manages it, barely – his hand's shaking terribly, as is mine, and as he speaks, his voice cracks open in the midst of the first three words, and for the last three, his lips move, but nothing comes out. He jerks his head to the side in exasperation, does a rather indelicate throat clearing himself, and says the whole thing again, pointedly, loudly, all but shoving the ring, which gets momentarily stuck, up my third finger_._

I stare at it in disbelief, this newly acquired bit of jewelry, and, I mean … Wow. _That_ is fucking _married_.

I look. Jimmy flips it to me with what is definitely a proud grin … and I shakily raise the gold to Brian's hand.

"Repeat after me," the bishop says, with the tiniest hint of a smile, "With this ring, I marry you."

I go to do it ... I begin to form the phrase, and fuck if my own throat doesn't completely shut down. What is it about saying the words themselves that is so damned powerful? That nearly upends you? What else did my throat _think_ I was doing here in this church, in front of all of these witnesses - and a _bishop_ - if not _this? _

I stop. I look. Our pooled, red eyes meet. I blink hard, to clear them, and bore mine into his – I want him to _feel_ this, forever, what I'm saying, to _know_ it, to the marrow. Determined to punch out the words, determined for the whole world to know them, I practically shout it into the room:

"_With this ring! I MARRY! YOU!"_

He watches, looking in complete shock, as I slip it past his knuckles.

The bishop, smiling warmly, then lays a hand on my shoulder, and Brian's:

"Brian Slade, Curt Wild, it gives me greatest pleasure to pronounce that, from this very special day forward, in the eyes of your witnesses, and, I truly believe, the eyes of God, _you are now married, and each other's husbands,_ to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, _til death do you part."_

The place erupts.

What is almost drowned out by the cheers and screams, are his final words:

"_You may now kiss."_

And so, we do.

* * *

><p><em>AUTHOR'S NOTE<em>:

So ... there you have it, a thing that I have dreaded writing and put off for ages - the wedding. It's just so damned daunting! So ... what do you guys think? I totally need to know! Was it too weepy? Too sappy and girly? Well, regardless ... stay tuned. We have Brian's POV coming up, the reception, the motorbike ride home, and then, my friends ... the wedding night commences ...

Okay, just want to give credits ... Part of Brian's vow is Eddie Vedder lyrics, from his ridiculously romantic song "Longing to Belong". Curt also borrowed, in part, from Eddie Vedder, from his song breathtaking song, "Release", slightly modified by me. And as noted, the poets are Rumi, and e.e. cummings. Also, I borrowed heavily, basically word for word, from Dan Savage's actual wedding ceremony from when he married his husband in Canada in 2005 (as told in his fantastic book about it, called "The Committment") - what is said above generally about marriage by the bishop, and what is said about the meanings of the rings, etc.

Thanks for reading!


	56. Who Cares?

The pulling away of one's lips from Curt Wild's is difficult, at best, under normal circumstances, let alone when you've just been pronounced his … holy fucking shit.

_His husband. _

_Not_ as a joke, and _not_ by any half arsed charlatan, mind you ... but a genuine _holy man_ – an important, highly placed member, in fact, of the – yipes! - Catholic church! If my mother, grandmother, or any of my extremely Catholic ancestry could see me now ...

Yes, surreal as it may be as we stroll arm in arm through the cheering, rice-and-flower-tossing assemblage, we really have just gone and done it. For real. _Gotten fucking married._

Legal? No, but _trust me,_ the terror, the nerves, the sparking, crackling, hyper-intense love energy between us pretty much knocks 'legal' on its arse, don't you think? I will right now challenge anyone to find this ceremony, this day, these declarations and promises to be _in any way_ invalid or 'less than'. Seriously. My love for Curt? His for me? It's powering the sun and the bloody universe.

* * *

><p>As the limo begins to make it's careful way round the churchyard, far in the back, Curt and I lean wearily into each other, clasp hands and silently watch our well wishers through the window. There are, at once, a million things I want to blurt – gushings over his outrageously romantic vows, over the whole stunning ceremony, over <em>him;<em> how much I _know_ that we, as a couple, _will work_, and that I will love him, forever and always; just how extraordinarily brilliant and beautiful life can be, (etc etc) … but, I say nothing. Because. He and I have just made the biggest statement that any two people can … There isn't really anything else that need be said. And so I simply rest my head against his, and bask in the afterglow.

* * *

><p>He raises our joined hands before us. Our wedding bands – one silver, one gold – clink together softly. He thumbs mine, and turns it slightly in place.<p>

"_It's really true,_" his gesture says.

I tilt my head.

"_It is," _answers my kiss.

* * *

><p>As we exit the car upon arrival at Maria's, we are met, once again, by a rousing chorus of shouts and hoots. Ironic, it suddenly strikes me, that I've been similarly met by cheering crowds, the world over, this last year plus – stadiums full - and in retrospect, I realize ... it never meant a single thing to me. The more it happened, in fact, the more entitled I felt, and monstrously ungrateful I became, to the point of throwing tantrums at my band and staff and even the crowd itself if I felt they weren't worshipful enough (and later, unfailingly banging a half dozen or so of it's members after which I would immediately kick them out my door without a word.)<p>

Who _was_ that horrid, desperately unhappy person, I think, as I gaze at Curt, whose normally large, expressive blue eyes have swollen to the size of saucers, in awe at the display of good will before us - banks of fanciful, lovingly prepared foods and desserts and wine; gorgeous, sweet smelling flowers and white ribbons and balloons spread as far as the eye can see; piles of tastefully wrapped wedding gifts, and finally, our exquisite multi-tiered wedding cake.

All of which is nothing, it immediately becomes obvious, compared with the look that _leaps_ to Curt's face upon the sight of little Boo, who comes flying at him one hundred miles an hour as soon as she's let out of the house, having been safely ensconced (and totally spoiled by the children) the last day and a half, much against Curt's wishes, so that we could concentrate on our Big Day.

Yes, there can be no question: the two beings are hopelessly in love, Curt scooping up the squirming, barking, wagging, licking thing into his arms and immediately launching – it clearly can't be helped - into rapid, high pitched baby talk, no matter that 40-odd people are watching.

Moments like these – the innocence, the childlike wonder and adoration gushing straight out of a grown man with, unlike 99% of us, not a single thought to what anyone may think, do two things to the organ in my chest: one, force it to swell to ten times its original size. Two, make it want to plunge straight down into my toes, in shame. Over myself, or, rather, the me I used to be. How _could_ I have lived my life, to this point, the way that I did? Wasted _so_ many years playing the cynical, horrid, selfish monster; the scheming, backstabbing whore, all while there were extraordinary creatures such as _he_ roaming the earth, who lack a single mean bone in their bodies, who have absolutely no business being so grateful, so humble, so loving and sweet?

* * *

><p>Maria rushes us, nearly stumbling over her heels on the way, squealing and grabbing and kissing us eagerly on both cheeks.<p>

"The ceremony was _SO BEAUTIFUL!"_ She swoons. "Like a dream! I can't _tell_ you how gorgeous it was, and how gorgeous you both look, and how _happy we all are for you!"_

She kisses us each again.

"Thank you _so_ much," I tell her. "For _everything_. Your reading, too, was just so lovely."

"Maria," Curt says, putting the puppy down and grabbing her arm, "you made today happen. We couldn't have done it without you."

"Don't be silly!" She says, waving her hand.

"No, listen," Curt insists, "are you kidding? The whole thing! The church-"

"-The bishop," I interject, smiling at the man standing off to her side.

"You rallied everyone you knew," Curt continues, "the baker and the florist and the ring guy-"

"-The tailor!" I add.

"-And got them all behind us-" Curt says.

"-Oh, stop!" she laughs. "Do you think every second of it wasn't a _total_ joy and a delight for me – for my whole family - to help some dear friends with a little wedding planning? Plus it's practice for when my kids do it!"

We, everyone, laugh.

Manuel then wraps us in a giant fisherman's bear hug, patting us each rather hard on the back and spewing congratulations, followed by David's more reserved but no less sincere handshake, then the blushings of young Angelina, younger Bella, and finally little Juan. There is then the bishop, Manuel's brother, wife, and the rest of the endless line of guests, and, then, at the back … is Jim, looking over the moon for his friend, and a tad misty-eyed.

The two stare at each other a beat before Jim grabs Curt and wraps him in a long, emotional embrace. I throw my hand at my mouth - it's all I can do to keep myself together at the sight of these two lifelong friends – brothers, really – and the knowledge of everything they've been through.

Jim breaks the silence by congratulating Curt and calling him, just loud enough for me to hear, an _asshole_, and quickly qualifies this by calling him in fact, a _stupid_ asshole, but informing him that he loves him, anyway.

"I know ya do, Jimmy," Curt tells him, patting him on the back, grinning. "I love you too, man, even though you're such a fucking _dirtbag_."

The boys then split apart, all grins.

"There's no way I could be happier for ya, man," Jim adds, clutching Curt's elbow. "Seriously. I mean it."

"Thanks, man," Curt beams.

"Even if you do make a _complete _ass of yourself with that damn puppy. It's like, wow, man, I don't even wanna _know_ you."

Curt laughs, looks down at the white fuzzball at his feet, takes my hand, and shrugs.

"No way I can help it. Next to Brian, Boo's like the love of my life."

Is it obvious only to me and Jim that while he's kidding, he's really, in a way, not?

* * *

><p>In the next second, there is an ear splitting sound, which stops everyone in their tracks.<p>

We turn.

It is, of course, Maria, up on a chair, having done the two-fingers-in-the-mouth whistle thing.

"Everyone! Thank you so much for coming,," she calls to us, "We are honored to host a little reception to celebrate our friends Brian and Curt and their big, beautiful wedding day!"

Which elicits further cheers and shouts from the crowd, and Jim's playful bats on Curt's head.

"-But, having been through this myself, albeit a long, long time ago," she smiles, "and Manuel I know will agree – it _is_ a rather taxing and somewhat unnerving experience," she continues, the crowd chuckling with her, "and so why don't we all dig into the acres of delicious homemade food we have here, and then the stunning wedding cake, with our grooms' permission, of course, and sit our backsides down for some much needed rest and conversation, before we get up to dance and whoop it up for the remainder of the evening?"

No one argues.

* * *

><p>Curt and I sit in front of our meals – incredibly juicy looking, apparently perfectly cooked filets with salted English potatoes and fancily tarted up Michigan squash, we're told - but find that as the guests of honor, we barely have time to take a bite, or speak a word to one another, as we are very much the center of the entire place's attention – continuously complemented on the success that was the ceremony, on our dapper clothing; both quizzed and advised about our future plans, the house we will make together in London and here in Ibiza; how we met, our careers, our families, etc., etc. There are endless stories of other family members' and ancestors' weddings and traditions and marriages, the children that ensued, life here on the island and on the mainland, and a great, great deal of general marital philosophy and supposed keys for guaranteed wedded bliss, happiness, health, and harmony.<p>

It's not as painful as it sounds. There is much laughter and teasing, particularly as the wine flows, with some stories turning almost bawdy at times, when the children are out of earshot.

At one point Maria approaches, and crouches before Jim and Curt (and Boo, in Curt's lap), and for what seems like the next hour, the three proceed to carry on an exceedingly detailed, animated discussion of their mutually beloved Michigan.

Meanwhile I'm quizzed about London by various guests, about guitar playing technique by Juan, and Curt's upcoming album, specifically, and Curt, generally, by Angelina.

"It's beautiful," she opines, watching him pet and stroke Boo, "how much he loves animals."

"Yes, it is."

"Would it sound bad to say that I don't think most people who listen to his music would picture that?"

"No," I laugh. "You're totally right. That's maybe the best thing about Curt - who he is underneath the rough exterior."

She then catches me completely off guard.

"I think he would make a wonderful father."

The nasty, snarling part of me instantly twists it's ugly face into being. _Does she know he wants kids? HOW_ _does she know?_ I shriek internally. _And god, how I HATE you, that you could make his dreams come true in a single evening, while no amount of fucking on our parts will ever make it happen ... _

She turns to me.

"It's none of my business so please forgive me, Brian, but ..."

"-But _what?_" I say, eyes narrowing, somehow stopping myself from snapping.

She stops, looking slightly shocked. Oops. Maybe I did snap at her.

"Um," she continues nervously, "I-I was just going to say that if you two were ever to be interested, and again, please forgive my intrusion in saying so; I know it's not my place, and I don't know if you're possibly already aware of this, but ..."

_BUT WHAT? !_ I want to scream.

"And I have no idea if you have any interest, or might at some point, or maybe not, because of course it's none of my business, but ..." Her voice drops to a whisper, _"... the bishop has placed babies with gay couples, before."_

I stop dead. I blink.

"And even made legal arrangements, and such," she continues. "I know the couple involved. They are very happy and make such a beautiful family."

And so, of course, my seconds-before ragings are instantly deflated, to the point where I actually find myself sighing … deep breath … and reaching out a hand to her.

"You're incredibly sweet, Angelina. Yes, we're actually aware of that - he told us, himself." I smile at her, I'm beaming, even, as we both look over at Curt. "And you're absolutely right. Curt would … _will_ make an amazing dad, one day."

She turns to me.

"You, too, I'm sure, Brian."

"Oh," the laugh catches in my throat. "Oh, god. Thanks, but …" I blush, I stammer. "Thanks. Curt's more of a natural, in that department, for sure. I'd still have a very long way to go, I'm afraid."

"Oh, but I see how you care for him, Brian. You're so loving … so _nurturing _and protective, it seems."

My god. She really does watch us closely. It's cute, but also a bit creepy.

Her face sparks, and she grins suddenly, over some private thought.

"What?" I ask.

"Sorry. Perhaps it's the wine. I just realized … and forgive me, again, for being so bold, but it seems to me that perhaps your public persona also belies the private person."

I laugh. She is quite wise, this girl.

"Yes, I suppose that's true in a way for both of us, though I have to say, Curt has brought out qualities in me that I don't think were there, before."

"Oh, but they must have been."

I shake my head.

"No. They weren't. I was pretty heartless – much like my public image. Falling in love with Curt kind of changed everything. It sort of… restructured my brain, I guess."

She grins.

"Your heart."

"Oh, absolutely," I laugh, as does she.

At this moment, Curt glances briefly over at us and I suddenly realize what is it looks like, Angelina and I, laughing and whispering together. He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I smile, in recognition of what is going on here. Firstly, there's the realization that I want a kid so badly for Curt, because _he_ wants it so badly and because he will, indeed, make an amazing dad, that I will stop at nothing to make it happen. Secondly, that Angelina, who in my less rational moments has been a perceived threat, is huddled up with me – surely the two least likely people in the world to be doing so - whispering about love and babies and restructured brains … and it's beautiful. Like a weight off my shoulders. My jealousies, I can now feel, gone. _Kaput_. It's rather freeing, letting go of this part of my brain, (if, indeed, I can truly let it go), seeing her for the first time as who she is: a genuinely sweet girl, an innocent, in a way, but hardly stupid – she's crushing on Curt, after all.

* * *

><p>Seconds later Maria calls her away and I get up to use the loo. When doing so, I look in the mirror, and am struck at the man looking back, who, firstly, is dressed so very exquisitely – like royalty - a Duke, for fuck's sake, and who, secondly, looks so ridiculously free and happy and alive he's about to float away ...<p>

I should mention by the way that I'm no stranger to mirror gazing, having enjoyed primping and powdering myself for much of my life and certainly on a near daily basis since the glam thing hit. Generally I've overall found myself not too terribly displeased with my looks. I liked to think I was, maybe not beautiful, but at least decent looking enough to lure in those that I carnally desired, and once I became famous, of course, it was as easy as snapping one's fingers. Or rather, we actually had it down to a science, my staff and I: Either following a show, during it, or afterwards, (or all three), I would simply nod, wordlessly, in the direction of those I found fuckable ... and they would be brought to me. So easy, so cheap. No obligations whatsoever, no need to be nice to the person/people, or even to speak to them. Blow/fuck/run. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until I met Curt, I didn't listen to my gut – refused to acknowledge how empty these encounters were increasingly leaving me.

At any rate … sigh. That life, that man, is ancient bloody goddamn history, isn't he?

_Yes, _thank you.

* * *

><p>I wash my hands and splash water onto my face and lean close. I pull on the skin next to my eye. Not a lick of eyeliner to be found. I rub my cheek – no powder here. My lips – my best feature, I believe - my own natural color.<p>

I lean back.

I am visited by two epiphanies:

One, that there is no need, ever again, for a mask.

Two, that this, more than anything, is the definition of love.

* * *

><p>I return to find Curt surrounded on all sides by Maria, Angelina, and Bella. As I approach the table, he turns his head briefly, and spies me grinning at him, and gives me the loveliest wink, with just a hint of an adorable <em>'oh well, what can I do?'<em> shrug, which, yes, it's hard to believe ... makes me love him all the more.

* * *

><p>Jim ambles up to me, beer in hand.<p>

"So … aren't we supposed to have, like a _talk_, er something?"

I look at him. "Sorry? A 'talk'?"

He's mildly tipsy, and mildly embarrassed.

"Ya, you know, like, I make you promise to be good to him," he says, pointing in Curt's direction with his beer can, "and take care of him, and shit, and like, threaten to kill you if you harm a hair on his stupid, brainless blonde head."

I burst out laughing.

"Oh! _That_ talk! Yes, well, you needn't worry, Jim. I consider Curt's happiness my reason for being, quite frankly. My number one priority, in fact. Will that do?"

He grins. He laughs.

"Ya. Ya. That'll do."

* * *

><p>There is a clinking of glass, a quieting of conversation, and then Manuel's baritone voice.<p>

"Everyone, let us now toast the happy couple."

I reach for Curt's hand under the table. We glance at each other shyly.

Manual raises his glass.

"Gentlemen," he says, addressing us, "we have not known each other but a brief period, and yet I know that I speak for my family in saying we consider you very much to be a part of ours." (Hoots and claps). "So from the bottom of our hearts, may we wish you eternal blessings, and the peace and happiness that only true and lasting love can provide."

The whole place erupts, glasses in the air, clinking against one another, and our backs are repeatedly patted.

Jim then stands, holding a nearly empty beer glass. I tense slightly, hoping he isn't too drunk, and can manage to keep his language in check.

"Um," he says, a slight slur to his words, "I'm kinda not too good at this, um … _stuff_." (Hooray! He refrained from saying 'shit'!) "Curt, my man, lemme just say, you're amazing, dude. You've had more rotten luck than the nearest two hundred people combined, your whole life. And yet, you're like, super strong, and whip smart, and insanely talented, and even dead good looking, ya _jerk_-"

To which Curt blurts:

"-I'm not marrying you, Jimmy!"

Everyone laughs.

"No! Seriously. I'm a bit in awe of you, always have been, and slightly jealous-"

"-Come on, man!" Curt interrupts, waving his hand, laughing.

"-Dude, it's not just cuz I have six beers in me that I'm saying this – it's true! I totally look up to you and tomorrow I'll deny I ever said any of this, so live it up!"

The whole place breaks up.

"No, but," he continues. "I just wanna say, you're my brother, man – you know you are. _All_ I've ever wanted is for you to be healthy and happy, so when I see you with Brian, and the way you guys are together …" he rests a hand on his chest and even from far across the table I can see that his eyes have watered. "I swear, I've waited all my life for this, and it's the best damned thing I've ever seen." He raises his glass high in the air. His voice cracks slightly. "Here's to Brian and Curt, and a million years of happiness."

* * *

><p>As dinner eventually winds down, Jim begins snooping at the table containing our truly jaw dropping wedding cake, and makes an impatient beeline for Curt, who is still ensconced in conversation with Maria.<p>

"Man, dude," he says, pointing, "you seriously gonna let that thing sit there all _night?"_

* * *

><p>At said table, following tradition, Curt and I each hold onto the rather sizable knife, to make the first slice. In truth, I wish we didn't have to – it's so very, very pristine – truly a slaved over work of art, and smells like heaven, and I sort of don't want the moment to pass – any of these moments. We pause, though, and smile for Angelina's camera – she being the unofficial wedding photographer, then carefully press the tip into the frosting on the large lower tier, midway between two eerily perfect sugar seashells.<p>

I protest, but Curt wants to, and so, following some inane wedding tradition, as everyone watches, we simultaneously shove a slice of cake into each other's mouthes. It's really quite embarrassing and also messy, as you can't help but get frosting on your face and hands when doing so, and the whole scene causes us to break into extended fits of giggles, and then suddenly he's pressing his frosting-smeared lips close, giving mine a little lick, and then, wham! Right in the kisser.

I get a momentary spark of a turn on from the whole thing, sliding something into Curt's mouth, etc., and unhelped by the wine and the embarrassment and his kissing me, my whole face turns bright red as I get the tiniest hint of what awaits us, later – so close, yet still so painfully far.

* * *

><p>Off to the side, I spy Manuel dragging a chair to a clearing on the edge of the patio. David brings him a guitar.<p>

"Everyone," he shouts. "It is time for music, and dance, but first our grooms must lead the way."

I look at Curt.

Here we go.

* * *

><p>We stand, together, in the middle of the enormous brick patio. He sighs nervously and we position our hand and bodies as we've now several times practiced, and hold them there, awaiting the music. It strikes me as ironic, that with every eye in the place focused on us, aside from brief limo ride here, during which we snogged, rather than spoke, that this is our first private moment as <em>husbands<em>.

Manuel's fingers move up the fretboard and he plucks out the first chord to a beautiful Flamenco-style instrumental. We look at each other, and on a perfect, placid, Spanish spring evening, the stars twinkling high above, these two rock stars begin their first dance as a married couple.

* * *

><p>"Just an average day, huh, Demon?" Curt says, smiling in that irresistible half crooked manner.<p>

"Oh, yes. Quite," I answer, faking a yawn. "I'm rather bored to pieces, myself."

"No, you're not," he chuckles. We spin a half turn, then back again. "How y'doing?" he asks, "Really."

"I am," I tell him, "if you must know, rather inordinately chuffed, at the moment."

"'Chuffed' – that's one of those pansyass British terms, right?"

"Yes. It means, I'm, um, extraordinarily delighted. Tickled pink, you could say."

He quirks an eyebrow.

"Ya? Why's that?"

"Well, for one thing, it's a lovely evening."

"Uh huh. Nice weather. Anything else?"

"Um, well … I did get married today."

"No shit, really?" He laughs. "Me, too!"

We continue to sway about the place, unaware of the eyes upon us and somehow managing the dance rather nicely.

"Are you tired, my love?" I ask, brushing his hair back from his eyes.

"Um, I don't think tired's the word. I'm more fried, and like, stunned."

"Me, too."

"Also, blown away. Completely."

"Me, too. The ceremony was-"

"-Only fucking perfect. Seriously. Like something out of the movies. And oh my god, that thing you wrote - 'longing to belong'".

"The thing _you_ wrote about waiting up in the dark for me! ? I almost expired on the spot!"

"I have the feeling our next albums are gonna be 100% mushed out love songs."

We laugh together.

"Yes," I add. "I like this idea very much. It will _so_ shock people-"

"-Horrify 'em. _Us_ two turning into a couple o' corny-ass, superlame folk singers."

We laugh.

"Our album sales will plummet. Straight into the toilet."

"Ya. They will." He smiles. "Who cares?"

Sigh. Who cares, indeed.

* * *

><p>We sway about, in time to Manuel's pickings, and then completely unexpectedly, my vision suddenly <em>tilts<em> … because Curt's dipping me – a quick dip, then back up again, causing me to be momentarily light headed, and causing the crowd to burst into giggles and applause.

"That wasn't part of the dance protocol, I don't think, Curt."

He grins.

"Freestyle. Wasn't expected, but then it sure as hell wasn't expected that I'd marry Brian Slade, either."

I lean close and rest my cheek against his, slowing us down so that we're a half step behind the music.

I whisper in his ear.

"So then none of this is a dream, then? It's all real? Tell me."

We slow down further and lean our foreheads together, and then stop. Our lips brush.

"_Real as this,"_ he says, and kisses me.

* * *

><p>The remainder of the evening is a bit of a blur. We dance, a <em>lot<em>, for what feels like hours, with what seems to be everyone – myself with half the place; Curt, twice with Maria, once with Bella, who stands on his feet during, giggling and blushing away; once each with David, his boyfriend Pedro, and various middle aged wives of the men present. Curt even jokingly slow dances with Jim, a moment, before the two burst out laughing and hit each other over the head and walk off to smoke. Poor Angelina tries, but never does get a full Curt dance, as, I confess … I keep cutting in. (Yes, yes, she's a sweet girl, but …)

Somewhere in the midst of the evening, Curt and I sing a song, each. His choice is Tom Waits' eternally lovely 'Picture in a Frame':

_Sun come up, it was blue and gold_

_Ever since I put your picture in a frame_

_I come calling in my Sunday best_

_Ever since I put your picture in a frame_

_I'm gonna love you baby til the wheels come off, oh yeah._

_I love you baby and I always will_

_Ever since I put your picture in a frame_

Mine is Bob Dylan's "I Want You", or at least the verses I can remember, though I alter the last line to fit today:

_The guilty undertaker sighs  
>The lonesome organ grinder cries<br>The silver saxophones say I should refuse you  
>The cracked bells and washed-out horns<br>Blow into my face with scorn  
>But it's not that way<br>I wasn't born to lose you_

_I want you, I want you  
>I want you so bad<br>Honey, I want you._

_Now all my fathers they've gone down_  
><em>True love they've been without it<em>  
><em>But all their daughters put me down<em>  
><em>'Cause now I've got it.<em>

Together, we then sing an old Leadbelly number, followed by a rousing version of John Lennon's "Oh, Yoko", with strategically changed lyrics:

"_Oh, Curt Wild! In the middle of a dream, I call your name!"_

Pretty hokey, and thankfully maybe only one other person present (ie Angelina) knows the original song and how badly we're botching it, but we're laughing and singing in each other's faces and it's pure, unmitigated joy.

* * *

><p>Before we leave, as was previously arranged and choreographed, Jim wheels Curt's motorbike round, complete with Spanish 'just married' sign and tin cans on the back, which Curt was expecting. What he wasn't expecting was the ginormous white ribbon stretched across the handlebars. He turns to me in confusion.<p>

I reach for his hand, beaming like the sun.

"Your first wedding present, my love, from me."

He looks baffled, totally not getting it.

"Curt, I bought you the bike. It's yours."

His head whips to the side.

"What are you talking about?"

"Exactly what I said - the day we went to supposedly extend the rental, remember? I actually paid for the entire bike to give to you as a wedding present."

His mouth flies open and stays there.

"Brian, you're _kidding me!"_

"Of course I'm not! It'll be shipped to London-" I manage to eek out, before his lips crash land on mine and he throws his arms round me so tight I'm momentarily suffocated.

"My own _bike?_ _?_ No one's ever given me such an amazing gift in my entire life! It's insane! You have no idea what this means to me! How will I ever repay you?"

I laugh. I pull back from him and touch his face, which has lit up like a million watt bulb.

"No need. Your face is repaying me right now."

He snogs me again, and turns to the bike, going over it with his hands as if he's never seen it before, running them over the gears, the handlebars, and then promptly lifts little Boo and places her on the seat.

"Get that dog off of there!" Jim shrieks.

"No!" Curt laughs. "Quick! Somebody take a picture!" he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the scene.

"Our first family photo." He grins, as the flashbulb goes off. "Thank you so much, baby. I'll never, ever forget it," he says, and kisses me again.


	57. Ride Home

I hand him the bag. He looks at it, puzzled.

"Change of clothes for the ride home, my love."

He gives me a blank look.

I smile. He's such a boy.

"Don't wanna risk motorbike grease on our wedding attire."

"Oh. Right," he nods, and pecks me on cheek. "You think of everything," he grins, and walks off to change inside the house.

I look at Jim. I shrug.

"So I guess we'll see you Monday."

"Yup," he nods, watching Curt walk off. "By the way, if you don't know it, you _completely_ blew his mind with that bike."

My grin splits my face.

"I'm so pleased. I was pretty bloody nervous, purchasing something I know nothing about that we can't exactly return ..."

"No, believe me, you won't want to - it's an absolute beaut. And I know Curt – he feels like somebody just handed him a kazillion bucks. He'll be bouncing off the walls for a good long time."

I laugh.

"Good."

"No. Seriously - he's not gonna shut up about it_. _You might be sorry you bought it."

I shrug. I laugh.

"Small price to pay."

I look at Manuel. I reach for, and shake his hand with both of mine.

"Well, once again, we must thank you, honestly, from the bottom of our hearts, Manuel, for _everything_, and for being kind enough, too, to offer to host Jim tonite and drop him off at the airport tomorrow. We really owe you and your family the world. I feel guilty about it, frankly."

"Oh, do not, Brian," he responds. "I can _assure_ you, it was our _complete_ pleasure. And you certainly have made my wife's year, by bringing not one, but two fellow Michigonians to visit her," he laughs. "They will talk all night."

"Yes, we will," she says, grinning at Jim and sliding an arm round Manuel's back. "And trust me, Brian. We had an absolute blast – the wedding, the party tonite, everything. We're so fortunate, and just absolutely tickled, to have met you two."

"Oh, god. I really rather think _we_ are the fortunate ones," I say, scanning their faces, the bishop, the children and guests. "You've _all_ gone so far out of your way to be so _unbelievably_ kind and generous to us. It's really quite incredible. And Father Pedro, that you offered your services, and the gorgeous little church, even though we're not even members! And presiding over the ceremony so beautifully. I just ..." I feel myself getting misty-eyed. I swallow and continue. "We're truly, really _so_ touched and moved by what you've all done, I can't tell you. We will never forget it."

The bishop approaches with the warmest smile, and a hand on my shoulder.

"I was honored to be a part of this, Brian. I believe we are _all_ children of God, and the fact that he shone down such a powerful, beautiful light on this day is proof to me that He has given your marriage his blessing."

Holy _fuck_. Did he_ … did he really just say that? ?_ I don't even _believe_ in god, and I'm about to burst out in a blubbering sob, at the thought that a couple of degenerate freaks such as _us_ would meet with anything but damnation in _His_ eyes.

"Well … god … _wow_," I bluster. "L-let's hope it's true!" I say, laughing nervously. "Thank you, for saying so, Father. Thank you for _everything_. Really." I look round at the faces. "And, well, needless to say and with all sincerity: if any of you are ever in London ..." I then spy Curt approaching over the bishop's shoulder, grinning in that twinkly-eyed way, sandy hair blowing about softly in the moonlit air, wearing the clothing I packed for him – one of his old, super soft black t-shirts; his only leather jacket, and, by god, those worn, droolingly delicious jeans, underneath which …

It's dizzying, how quickly the mind flies from 'god', straight to _'cock' ..._ for I've remembered something I'd somehow forgotten to this point.

That there was a single article of clothing he wouldn't have found in that bag.

* * *

><p>And then he's standing by me, slipping an arm behind my back, and even though I can hear every word out of his mouth, even though I'm watching his lips move as he addresses the assembled lot, my mind is suddenly very acutely focused on his <em>trousers ...<em> and it's genuine fucking torment, the thoughts dancing about my head, of the glorious nakedness underneath_, _that unsheathed, unshrouded member resting _right on the other side of _that soft denim material, in the _very_ immediate vicinity of my left hand, which dangles between us, and so I slip it quickly behind his back.

"We so wish we had more time," I hear him say. "We're back to work on Monday, then two weeks of recording and mixing, and then an eight month _tour_. We won't be back to Ibiza until the end of the year, unfortunately."

"Send us postcards," Maria says. "Many." She smiles sadly. "Please."

"Oh, absolutely." He steps towards her, kisses her on the cheek, wraps her in a huge long hug, and _fuck_ if my eyes don't _immediately_ drop to that perfect backside, _naked, naked, naked underneath .._.

"Thank you so much, too," he tells her. "For hosting Jim, and Boo again, tonite. Jim's promised to be a model guest."

Said guest raises his open palm and holds it up next to his face.

"Promise," he says.

"And Jimmy," Curt says, "I'm trusting you to bring Boo back safe."

"Ya, ya," he says, feigning disinterest.

"Dude, seriously; Brian booked two first class seats for you two for the plane, but ya _gotta_ make sure you hold her in your lap if she gets nervous or if there's turbulence, or whatever. And definitely for takeoff and landing. And make sure she has plenty of water, and those doggie snacks, and her blanket, and her toy. And_ cover her if she gets cold."_

"Oh, _man_. Anything _else_?"

"Um, well," says Curt, hands jammed into his pockets, looking down, thinking. "Oh!" he says, looking up. "She likes to be scratched under her left ear." He leans down and picks the puppy up. "See?" He says, a hand in her fur. "Right here. Like _this."_

The two stare at each other a beat- Jim, in disbelief, Curt in all sincerity, before Curt finally bursts out laughing.

"Jimmy, I'm _kidding!__"_

"Holy crap," Jim bellows. "Raving lunatic!"

"Goodbye, baby," he whispers, holding the puppy to his face. "Be good, now. I'll see you in a few days." He kisses her on the head, and then moves from person to person, hugging and shaking hands as I stand back in a dither, on the one hand, so touched and charmed all over again by his Boo fussings, on the other ... _completely_ fucking _bewitched_ – it can't be helped - by this exquisite, perfectly shaped bottom before me ... and growing ever red faced and cross eyed in front of the bishop as I start to ponder … well, wait just a minute … _is_ he wearing underwear, after all ...?

Because … _what is that little crease, there …?_

It's _possible_. He _might've_ decided to wear a pair when putting on his _wedding_ attire, after all, which would have been right and proper, and to keep them on when dressing just now … but that would be so unlike Curt, and yet …

The converse means he would have been naked underneath during the whole entire ceremony … Sans unders in a church …? ? (Wickedly naughty thought as that is …) But, would even _he_ have done such a thing …?"

I stop suddenly, realizing I'm being addressed.

"Sorry, what?" I ask.

"All you alright, senor?" The bishop asks.

I clear my throat and fluster about. "Um, yes. I … I was just-"

"You seemed in a bit of a fog," he observes.

Great. Terrific. Was I drooling, perhaps?

"Big day, baby," Curt says resting a hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you go and change?" He hands me the bag. He grins. "No grease on the wedding suit."

"Right," I say, purple-faced, abruptly turning to walk off.

* * *

><p>When I return, we say our final goodbyes, and Curt proudly mounts the bike – <em>his<em> bike! - and then, it's so funny … his closest observers, lined up in perfect placement, are me, Maria, and Angelina, side by side, watching as Curt grunts and flexes and _slams_ down on the kick pedal before the thing finally starts.

Phew. It never gets old.

I hand him his leather jacket and climb on behind.

David approaches and addresses Curt.

"I believe they have electric starters for motorbikes now. Perhaps one can be installed."

"Nah," he says cheerfully. "I don't mind a manual start," he says, with the tiniest hint of a grin: "And Brian prefers it."

* * *

><p>Pulling away is surreal all over again. Did all of that really just happen?<p>

Well, yes. I've got the rice in my hair to prove it. I've got, by the waist, the thing that now belongs to me and only me – _officially. _The bishop said so.

And dead ahead, at long, loooooong last, is the thing we have so richly earned … sacrificed and suffered for … the thing that by virtue of our wedding is now to be rightfully ours … our very own honeymoon.

* * *

><p>"Absolutely incredible day," he says, patting my hand.<p>

"Yes," I answer. "To say the very least."

"Feels like three days, actually."

"Yes. Easily."

He raises my hand to his lips, and kisses it.

"Cannot _believe_ you got me this fucking bike."

I laugh.

"Yes, right under your nose."

"Ya! I had no idea what was going on!"

"Good."

"It's the best gift I've ever gotten in my whole life, y'know. Aside from Boo, of course."

"I'm so pleased," I say, sniffing and nibbling on his neck.

"750 cc's is a big fucker. Never thought I'd own one. And new! It only had 23 miles on it when we first rented it, y'know."

"Did it?," I say, feigning interest and licking the back of his ear, pondering the (possible/apparent) lack of underclothing.

"I'll have to learn how to change the oil," he blathers. "And do my own tuneups, and stuff. It'll save money. And time."

Meanwhile the rush of wind is sending _all_ of his musky Curt-scent directly back into my face. I ponder momentarily a way to have it pumped throughout the house.

"I guess we'll have to store it somewhere," he continues. "Doubt we can bring it on the road with us, which kinda sucks, cuz it's be so fun to explore each city, just on our own, a bit."

_Pumped_ throughout the house ... My hips, yes- exactly what I intend to do. Into his face, his hands, his _hair_, his body, and his, mine.

"I wonder if there are any gear shops near your house."

His mind is firmly on the bloody _bike_, while I'm experiencing flashes of sense-memory, very vivid; all texture and taste; warm, flared head and open pores and inviting veins and pulsing and writhing and sea salt. As far as clinical addictions go, I can only claim chocolate cake, a particular brand of half biscuit/half crisp I enjoyed as a child and still seek whenever I'm in Brixton … and taking Curt by mouth.

"Do you have a garage?" he asks.

I shiver in the warm breeze. Yes, let it be known and make no mistake: I've given him my vows- public ones. Privately I'm vowing to cause him to be very sore indeed, to make him sorry we ever bloody well met. He's blathering on as I lick my lips, part them, and encircle his ear.

"No. Now _h___urry___ the fuck up and get us home._"

He laughs out loud. The engine revs.

My fingers stroke his exquisite shoulders, stomach, and trace the hem of his shirt.

"How much further?"

He laughs again, and shrugs.

"Baby, we're on the opposite end of the island. Unless we run every red light, it's like ten minutes."

_Ten minutes ?!_

"Run them, then," I whisper as I brush against his zipper with the heel of my hand.

Shit, I'm shaking. Desire? Lust? Sensual gluttony? We're going to redefine these terms.

"Full disclosure," I whisper. "_I'm going eat you alive_". I clasp and yank on the zipper.

"Brian," he says in a warning tone, meaning,_ not while he's frigging driving _… but I ignore him. I kiss his neck, the back corner of his jaw, and nibble on his lobe. "Yes, my darling?" I ask, while inching the zipper south. He doesn't answer.

_In_ my fingers slide.

"_Oh_ my lovely naughty boy," I coo-shriek, meeting warm, naked flesh.

He yanks out my hand, and turns his head.

"Your fault."

I shriek a celebratory shriek.

"_Yes! _ _But_ I realized after that you could've put some on when we suited up for the ceremony," I tell him, nibbling on his ear. "Which would've been the only proper thing to do, of course, inside of god's house."

He says nothing.

"It's frankly been driving me slightly _crazy_, Curt - wondering."

"Ya?"

"_Yes! So …?"_

"So, what?"

I lean closer and clasp both hands together tight, just north of his cock.

"Did you _wear_ any today, during the ceremony, of course?"

He shrugs, deliberately teasing me.

"What does it matter?"

"What does it _matter? !"_ I shout. "It would be incredibly … intriguing, yet … so highly and dare I say deliciously _inappropriate_, if you hadn't. _That's_ why."

"Inappropriate enough to be a turn-on, apparently."

"Of course! But then _everything_ you do, and _don't_ do, and say, and think, and _wear_ and _don't_ wear, is a turn-on to me, are you kidding? ?"

"But you always tell me off when I go without!"

I slide my hands up his chest and bury my face in his hair.

"You shouldn't listen to me."

"No?" he says, all amused.

"Not always, anyway."

I lean forward.

"_So…?"_

"So what?"

"Oh my god. I'm going to hit you! _Curt Wild,_ in the _church_ today, during the celebration of the sacrament of holy _matrimony_, _were you wearing any underwear?"_

He turns his head.

"C'mon, baby."

"Come on, _what? ?"_

He grins crooked. He speaks slowly.

"Do I ever?"

Oh god. Oh god. He didn't! Hallelujah! _Naked right now,_ under his trousers! Stop the bike! We need to fuck NOW!

"But it wasn't deliberate," he deadpans.

"Oh my dear, that hardly matters ..." I say, letting a hand slip directly past the zipper.

I shouldn't, should I? Bring him out into the open air? We _could_ get arrested, you know. And/or have a crash. And boy, the headlines if _that_ happened? !

I press my fingers further and … yee, _god_, I'd almost forgotten, the breathtaking pleasure of grasping a good plush healthy cock …

He shifts and bats at my hand.

"Come on, Demon, quit it. I'm _serious. _ We'll crash my bike."

Jim's right. He's making me sorry already I bought the thing.

"I'll buy you another …" I whisper, biting on his lobe, and boldly pulling him out into the air. "Right now, all I can think of is _consummating the marriage …"_

We travel about two blocks, with me fondling and teasing and applying light, feather strokes while speaking the worst possible filth into his ear, crazy turned on by the sick enjoyment of dividing his concentration in rather cruel and dangerous fashion …

_Squeel-skid!_ Kick up of dirt and dust …

The bike goes into a sudden slow deceleration and veers jaggedly off the road into an empty field.

In a split second he's jumped off and is coming furiously at me, hauling me off with determined eyes.

"_You don't listen, do you, fucking little prick tease,_" he hisses. "Fucking _faggot cock whore_. Trying to get us _killed?"_

My cock leaps a mile. What, tell me _what_ is it about stern, curse-laden sensual threat/insults that instantly convert me to jelly? To out and out lap dog-dom? Yes, Curt, I'm sorry for having played with your cock while on the motorbike- it was wrong. Just please, please, do keep talking to me in that manner, in that _tone_, with that deprived, depraved, uber-demonic look, and I guarantee you, I'll drop straight to my knees and make it all better.

And now of course, the glorious words are backed up with a _good-god_ set of rough pushes, both hands against my chest, straight backward and rather forcefully into a bloody _tree_. Not exactly how I'd pictured my honeymoon starting, and yet …

"_Fucking faggot pansy cocksucking poof." _

_YES!_ I may do somersaults of joy … but can't, as he's pinned both my hands to the bark and is rather indelicately _mauling_. I respond in kind, hyper-excited, and in an instant, we're near to fighting; grabbing, groping and scratching in aggression and fury. It's the 18 some-odd days' pent up sexual frustration letting loose, of course - simply too long in each other's presence without orgasm. Or, enough orgasms. And so we're reduced to growling. Growling, and exchanging sensual threats.

_"I'm gonna RIP your fucking HOLE open."_

_"I'm gonna SUCK your balls DRY."_

With that I push back, hard, against him and sail to my knees, reaching with both hands but the bloody man has to push me away and in doing so I lose my balance and fall backward into the grass. He lands over me and tears at my trousers and moves his head downward. I push back against him- really getting into this now … he pushes back at _me_ … and then we're rolling over each other, fighting for supremacy, for the chance to be the first to take the other, this side of our wedding; grunting, kissing and flipping tongues and bumping teeth and panting like mongrels. Just as I think I've gained hold of the top position for good, he flips me over again, and cock slaps into cock for the fifth or seventh time and … it's too much. He only need rub against me, just that little bit more … and I'm done for, shooting off into the night air.

Even as I'm spasming, I'm grasping at him – _bring me that cock NOW – _but as my hand keeps slipping and regripping- it is rather dark out and I'm all flustered, you see, I'm pulling on him slightly too hard, too eagerly… and the sensation bloody well pushes him over the edge. In a split second, he's spurting, gasping, on his knees above me.

We look at each other, astonished. Did we really just _do it_ … outside, next to the road, in an open _field_ ? We _actually_ couldn't make the short trip home? My face crinkles into a grin at his open mouthed, stunned expression.

"Well, at least we got _that_ out of the way," I laugh, still catching my breath.

"Ya," he laughs, as I pull his face to mine, "arousal – such an inconvenient _bother_."

He leans into me. We kiss once, twice, dry, and he moves to stand, but I'm too turned on still, by his scent, his _taste_, and so I yank him back, kissing and rubbing my body into his, til we each begin panting again … before we suddenly stop – the realization hitting us both.

That, delicious as a sudden, spontaneous public sex episode may be, it's delaying the start of the best night of our lives.


	58. Would That Be Okay?

While it sure as hell wasn't planned, I'm so fucking glad we did it. Cuz. It sorta squashed whatever pressure or nerves we may've had over that first post-wedding orgasm – to try to make it 'perfect', or whatever, and maybe the fear that married life might take the raunch out of things. (It won't. We won't let it.) I do otherwise tend to be a soppy romantic, but I also sorta need sex to be rough and spontaneous – unplanned and maybe a bad idea – _but done anyway _… so, a couple o' rock hard dicks and a literal roll in the dirt on the side of some random street? _Yes. _

Not to say I'm not still nervous about tonite – I am, which is my own fault for stupidly building it up in my mind – the whole goddamn virgin thing – into this sort of magical fairyland cure-all. The magic pill that'll magically make it so that I was never raped.

* * *

><p>It's hard, still, even to say the word, to admit it to myself. I play this mental game sometimes, pretending it wasn't me – that it happened to some other junked up loser – a feeble attempt to distance myself from the truth.<p>

_Sigh. _ It's pathetic – I _hate_ it - that the fucking thing still has a hold over me. But then, it hasn't been all that long, and it's not like I "worked it out in therapy", for chrissake - ha! As if _anything_ could "work out" what to me was like torture – it had all the elements. Yes, indeed, I learned first hand about this famous thing 'rape' – something guys usually have the supreme arrogant privilege not to ever have to worry about – namely, that being physically violated is an intensely personal, intensely violent, painful, and of course, wholesale humiliating act_ that you can't fucking stop, _(obviously if ya could, ya would) and that, afterwards, _you can't stop replaying in your head._ This, combined with the sickening realization I'd had, mid-way through, that these motherfuckers were _getting off_ on what they were doing to me - degradation of the most twisted, psychologically and physically damaging type ... and the reason? _I was there,_ stupidly, and it sure as fucked proved _easy_, but most importantly, to them ... _I was less than garbage. _

I _knew_ that. I _felt_ it. As if I didn't already suspect, I was _taught_ it, that night.

Even worse, if I'd died; if they'd killed me in the process – something I actually found myself praying for when I pieced together what was happening – there would have been no one there to claim me.

Seriously. To the cop, the coroner, I'd have been another faceless, nameless drug casualty, right? Why bother, then, with an investigation? With an autopsy? Why waste the time, and taxpayer money, over some dirtbag junky faggot lying in an alley, covered in bruises, with blood pouring out of his ass?

* * *

><p>Okay. ENOUGH. As I often remind myself (and is I've somehow managed to keep from Brian), every day that passes is another day between me and <em>It<em>, and I frankly can't help but find it sorta weirdly fitting that it's now been nine months – an infant's life cycle. Mind you, I used to keep track of how many _days_ it had been – that's how bad it was – but, tellingly, within a few weeks of meeting Brian, I lost count.

So … yes, nine months later, and I'm in another place, entirely, in my life, aren't I? To say the very fucking least. I won't say 'reborn', cuz I sure as fuck don't believe in that shit. All I know is, I'm okay. Like super okay. I survived. In fact, I'm thriving ... happy as the Village Idiot, crazy in love, and even_ married._

Okay? Did you catch that?

* * *

><p>At the house, we roar up the long driveway, leap off the bike, and whatever nerves remain are instantly smothered in drooling lust. We stumble toward the house, faces mashed obscenely, groping and slobbering like demented perverts until, at the door, he lays a hand on my chest, and gently pushes me back.<p>

"Wait for me on the beach," he says, all sly and twinkly eyed.

"Huh?" I ask, panting, head not on straight. (As the saying goes, when a man's penis fills with blood, it's rushed out of his brain.) "Why?"

He leans close, cups my balls in his warm, warm hand, and whispers.

"_Cuz I said so."_

_Jesus fucking __CHRIST,_ I think. _Just go ahead and light my dick on fire, why don't you?_

He turns me to face the beach, and speaks over my shoulder.

"Now be a good boy and go wait for me, and, _no undressing, _right?" He licks and nuzzles my ear. _"That's my job."_

I gulp, and with a gentle push, walk off in zombie fashion, in the type of daze one is in when one's privates are swollen, alive, and oozing.

* * *

><p>Okay, so … sex on the beach, as I'd hinted to him I wanted. This will be new. Not the sex outside part – anyone who turns tricks inevitably does it outside, the difference being that it's in places like the cold, cramped back seat of some scumbag's car, or up against the dumpster behind his partially-condemned building.<p>

In January. In Detroit.

So ya, on our own private, miles-wide beach on an island in the Mediterranean? Big, fat, motherfucking difference.

* * *

><p>I can see from a distance that he's crafted an almost ridiculously romantic scene, somehow managing to have set up not one, but two roaring bonfires on either side of a large, slightly elevated sand bluff with moonlit views in all directions.<p>

* * *

><p>I approach, surveying it all. There are not only the dual crackling bonfires, but a half dozen lit, scented, perfectly arranged candles; chilled champagne in a fancy silver flask with twin crystal goblets; at the head of the thing, four elevated vases containing bunches of alternating red and white long stem roses; and scattered everywhere, fluffy, plush velvet pillows, with some sort of matching super high end cranberry red and velvet gold satin sheets, and finally, our two beach chairs, for when we finally come up for air.<p>

What I can't figure is, how in hell did he do it? Meaning when? We've been away from the house for four or five hours. Or maybe … ya, okay. _Jimmy_. I _did_ notice that he split the reception for like half an hour at one point. Brian arranged the whole thing, then, clearly. Jim, who was sent here to set it all up, undoubtedly following Brian's exhaustively detailed hand drawn diagram, simply does not have the mind for such things.

* * *

><p>Not knowing what the fuck to do, and curiosity getting the best of me, I kick off my shoes and crawl into the middle of the whole luxurious mess. Yes, yes, it's soft, it's beautiful; I'm surrounded by unconscionable majesty and loveliness; the night sky is insane – deepest blue I've ever seen, accented with an oversized, glowing electric ball of a moon, stars twinkling dutifully, with a gently whooshing tide, and yet, all I can think is ... goddammit, Brian,<em> get out here and fuck me.<em>

* * *

><p>And then, suddenlyfinally ... he's there, standing over my outstretched form, wearing nothing but a grin.

* * *

><p>I'd been distracting myself counting stars, and quickly sit up at the arrival of his naked form. In one of his hands I spy a sizable bottle of lube, and in the other, something cylindrical I don't recognize.<p>

In between, protruding from him is something cylindrical I _do_ recognize.

"_Hello, husband,"_ he says, in that semi-satanic tone.

I stare, speechless. Is it the moonlight casting shadows in all the right places, or did I really forget just exactly how fucking perfect he is?

He leans down to place the items on the blanket.

Before he can lean back, I've got his cock in my mouth.

* * *

><p>There really is – I promise you - nothing like it in the world, a cock and a mouth. That the two may have been designed with one another precisely in mind seems too obvious to mention, but in addition, I'm one of those insanely fortunate people to have a man whose cock, when hard, performs, just naturally, the rare and lucky feat of <em>curving ever slightly <em>_downward_, versus _up_, as do most (mine included), which is significant because … speaking of design, it aids exceedingly if your intention, if your number one priority, in fact, is to _swallow it, _to in fact, shove the beautiful thing right into your esophagus.

"Curt, _wait,_" he mutters in a strangled hiccup. Sorry, Brian, no – I'm absolutely not waiting another minute, thanks, and immediately shut him up via a _snap-snap-snap _of the neck_, _and the first long, slooooow, deep swallow. Ahhh ... _god_, I've missed this, and again, regarding design, there can be no arguing that it was meant to be, this crazy-hot, so-perfect tucking of the head into the place it fits best - the rearmost portion of the soft palate, which I have to believe has that name for a reason, seeing as it's impossibly soft, arguably (in my opinion) _the_ softest flesh located anywhere in the human body, and when wrapped tight around the swollen, throbbing head of a cock that you're meanwhile sucking, _and _when you cause said flesh to vibrate via extensive humming ... I mean ...

Add to the sexual smorgasbord the loud, shaky guttural moans you wrest out of him ... like it hurts, like I've _hit_ him, with his hands clutching your scalp like he's clinging to it for dear life … not to mention the aroma of his body up close when he's aroused, nor the sticky sweet ooze of his pre-come ... and you've truly got a sexual nirvana like no other.

* * *

><p>Yes, unspeakably wonderful, this dick ingestion shit, the only downside being that the intensity of the sensation all but guarantees a quick finish. Oh well. May I just say I'm eternally grateful to Michael for teaching me the art to begin with - the unlearning, and ultimately, for the most part, complete disappearance of the gag reflex – to the point where, in the beginning, I became paranoid and would chop my food up into teeny bits, lest I choke. Lord knows the skill came in handy when tricking, literally paying my month's rent on more than an occasion. I remember this one guy, who had to have been a CEO or something, <em>twice<em> taking me - a greasy, longhaired street kid – up into his building – a gleaming high rise affair downtown Detroit - and in full view of the secretaries and underlings, walking me straight into his office and shutting the door behind us so he could enjoy a little throat action while taking a meeting via speakerphone. A hundred bucks, which was a huge lot to me at the time, but it was still fairly mortifying, leaving the office by myself and getting lost on the way to the elevator as everyone glared.

* * *

><p>Upward my eyes flick, hoping to meet his, but it's all long, pale, graceful English neck and upward trajectory jaw – face firmly in the stars.<p>

* * *

><p>Twice more … <em>thrust<em> and twist and breathe and rotate, rotate … _thrust_ … _sloooowswallow_ ... _sloooowswallow … _lower lip _edging, edging, edging_ his balls ... and _bang_ – he bursts open in my throat.

* * *

><p>Okay, so it's been a while, but I somehow didn't expect veritable rivers of come … <em>not<em> that I have any complaints, of course ...

* * *

><p>I fall back, pull his shuddering form down next to me, and … it's so weird. I want to be jumping around right now, in celebration of the smashing success that was our very first marital blow job. I want to gloat and shout and punch the air. Yet, as I watch him in the firelight, face crinkled as he grins through the gasps ... the <em>chemistry thing <em>hits– that super intense kinetic, synergistic energy that people in love tap into, and I feel it _so intensely _now; the air sparking and crackling between us, the electricity rocketing back and forth, to the point where it sort of clouds my vision. There's a glow around him, a glow to his grin and to the pillows and stars … And I have to ask myself ... is this a dream? Some fantasy I've cooked up? Because it's almost too perfect, right?

Or maybe it's that it makes you high, this love, and lovemaking business. The same chemical kick I was looking for all those years I was using.

* * *

><p>"You're the devil," he pantlaughs, leaning over, and then rolling on top to kiss me. "Did anyone ever tell you that?" he says, looking down at me, grinning and giddy.

"Then I guess that makes you a satanist?"

"_Yes._ A committed apostle of the man himself, but then we _are_ rock stars."

We laugh. We kiss. The energy swirls and swirls around us.

He clears his throat.

"Now, your _cocksucking_ skills, Mr Wild ..." he says, slowly shaking his head.

"Yes? Do they need updating?"

"Um, _no_. What they need is to be put into more frequent _use_."

I grin. "Okay." I kiss him. "I'll sign up for that. I think it was part of the marital contract, anyway, right?"

He brushes the hair back from my eyes.

"_Shut up. I love you."_

Gah, it still gives me such a rush.

"_I love you too, baby. Always will."_

We kiss, slow, and sweet and mushy.

"I'm a little bit annoyed with you, though," he stops to say. "Truthfully."

"Already? Our first fight!"

He laughs.

"No, it's just … I asked you to wait, cuz I was thinking you'd want our first official _act_ as husbands to be the thing we'd saved the honeymoon for."

"Aside from the roll in the hay we took earlier."

He smiles.

"Yes. Aside from that. But you had to go and drain and thoroughly wilt my poor, defenseless cock, so ..."

"Yes," I grin. "Totally defenseless."

He leans close.

"_But_," he says, a finger to my lips, and then bringing his to mine, he whispers into my mouth. _"I have a plan. The fastest way to make it hard, again."_

"Oh?' I say, quirking an eyebrow as he sits upright, and lowers a hand to my zipper.

"_Yes," _he says, yanking it down, _"so that your husband can fuck you,"_ he continues conversationally, pulling my swollen, aching member out from behind the material. _"Would that be okay?"_


	59. Only Reward

"_Does it ache?"_ he asks me, straddling my lap and eyeballing my cock as if he's never seen it before. _"Cuz I want it to," _he whispers.

Okay. There's verbal play, otherwise known as dirty talk, and then there's the kind of shit Brian Slade hits you with when he's turned on, that acts to twist your nuts around in place. He seems to have a sixth sense about it - sticking the knife in where it'll hit deepest - and then, as if everything coming out of his mouth wasn't sexy enough in that English accent, there's that _vocal __tone_ – super hard-on sultry – and all of it overseen by those enormous, twinkling Irish blues ...

"_Well, does it?"_ he insists, gripping my dick and leaning forward to yank on my hair, our tongues and hips banging and tangling (bangling?).

"_What do YOU think?"_ I snap, panting in his face at the rapid twist and spiral of his fist.

He stops dead, and leans back, reaching for something on the blanket. "Oh, well, we can't have _that_, now can we, Curt? We can't have you coming _prematurely._"

"Wha-huh?" is all I can muster, as he casually slips what I recognize as a cock ring over the tip, and straight down.

These are things I didn't previously know about – sex devices and stuff – and it both astonishes and hugely turns him on, the knowledge that despite myself – despite what a literal whore I've been at times – I'm still somehow a bit of an innocent.

* * *

><p>"<em>Shit-" <em>I choke, head snapping back, at his in my lap.

After a minute, I struggle up onto my elbows, to watch.

There they are (is it the sight, or the sensation that drives you crazier?) Brian Slade's famously fat, luscious, super soft lips dragging back and forth, up and down, and _all-the-way-around your cock._ I mean, Jesus fucking Christ!

Thing is, with Brian and blowjobs, particularly his specialty;_ hot, slow banquet;_ you are just about literally consumed and, bit by bit, _inhaled. _

_Gasp. Gasp. _(Or, is it asphyxiated?)

* * *

><p>So ya, I'm a fucking squirming mess, cussing into the night air, alternating between watching, flinging my head back, and watching again, hips bucking helplessly as my body prepares for the orgasm it can't have – the knowledge of which ramps the whole thing up by about a million percent …<p>

When suddenly, in the midst of this steaming cauldron of debauchery … he stops, leans up, grabs my hair with both hands and _throws_ his mouth at mine.

"_I could eat you all night,"_ he mutters, matter-of-fact, mid-maul.

Oh god.

"_Keep you hard for hours, if I wanted."_

_Pant, pant. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."  
><em>

"_Teasing that hard cock til it comes - til I guzzle it down."_

I bust out into a sweat.

"_Fuck."_

"_Sucking down that big … nasty … sticky ... load." _

_Enough_. I push up against him, intending to flip him back and fuck the living shit from him … but he's stronger than me, in having the upper hand, and so pushes back with force, sits up and lays a firm hand on the center of my chest.

"Nope. _Right_ where you are, sex-boy," he says, eyes gleaming. "Do you have any idea, by the way, how _hot_ you are in that leather jacket?"

"No!" I blurt in frustration, struggling and fighting him.

"Good," he says, holding my hands in place. "Now, shut the fuck up, and _keep still._ I have a _surprise_ for you."

* * *

><p>He quickly swings his legs over and turns himself around in my lap, to face away. I have no idea what he's doing. A hand reaches back behind him, and it's then that I notice the gauze bandage at the center of his lower back.<p>

I'm startled, briefly, assuming he's somehow cut or injured himself and I hadn't known all this time – why didn't he tell me? - hadn't known as we rolled in the grass, which must have _hurt_ him and maybe even aggravated the wound.

"_Brian ..."_ I say softly, all arousal having fled - but he shushes me, and begins to carefully peel back the bandage, and I have no clue what the fuck is going on, or how this could in any way be part of a 'surprise' …

And then the thing's gone, and what is revealed behind it, in the middle of all that immaculate, pale flesh, is yes, a red, raw looking patch of skin … but then I realize it's a fucking …

_tattoo_.

Yes. Fresh looking, with a bold pink arrow in the middle pointing straight down at his _ass crack_, with words directly above it, which, in my initial bafflement, I can't quite make out, until my eyes focus, and then it's ...

"_Property of _

_Curt Wild_

_Since 1972"_

… done up to resemble, of all things, a USDA_ meat _stamp_._

I blink. I blink again, eyes bulging out of my brain.

Yep. There it is: _"Property of Curt Wild since 1972."_ Meaning, the man has literally gone and _carved __my name … permanently ... into his flesh. _And why? To announce to any takers, to anyone who would ever have cause to see him naked, _for the rest of his life_, that he belongs to someone else.

That he belongs to _ME_.

* * *

><p>There's a kazillion emotions colliding in my skull. It's just so <em>baffling, <em>so nuts_, _that he's actually done this, _permanently_ imprinted my name on his body! Surprise? Ya, it's sure as fuck a surprise. Akin to an insanely romantic _brag_, a point of _pride_ – something that, believe me, my name has _never_ been associated with.

It's also the hugest possible vote of confidence in _us_, as a couple, right? I mean, a figurative, as well as literal statement.

And then there's the impact it's having on my dick; it being, hands down, THE hottest, most super-charged, brain twistingly erotic thing I've seen, _ever_ in my life … _BRANDING_ yourself? Announcing to the world who fucking 'owns' you! ?

In a flash, I'm up, an arm around his torso, pulling him back against my chest, and hissing in his ear as I finger the cock ring. I don't even hear the words as they fly from my mouth.

"_You're mine?"_

"_Yes," _he whimpers.

"_My boy?"_

"_Yes."_

"_My PROPERTY?"_

"_Oh god. Yes!"_

"_I OWN you?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_This ASS?"_

"_YES!"_

"_This HOLE?" _I growl, inserting two fingers.

"_YES! YES! PLEASE! !"_ he cries as I throw him forward, rip off the ring, chomp down on his ear, _("MINE?" "Nobody ELSE'S?" "OWN you?"), _bite his back, jam my hand on his neck to grind his squealing face into the blanket ... and _slam_ into him with such force, that, over and over, his knees leap off the blanket.

* * *

><p>It's a damn good thing, it turns out, that the nearest neighbor's over a mile off, cuz, between us, it sounds like an orangutang, or some large mammal or other, is being serially murdered.<p>

* * *

><p>So ya ... I guess you could say we both find the whole ownership thing disturbingly erotic ...<p>

Accordingly, I don't last long – can't – and shoot off in a titanic, 19-days-deprived, corpuscle-and-artery-taxing _gush,_ the intensity of which I am sure will linger – tingling in my bones – spine - in major and minor organs - the remainder of my life.

* * *

><p>We collapse together in a messy pile in the sand, or rather the silken sheets covering it, and I remain in place a while, wheezing like a very old man, kissing and nuzzling his hair, shoulders, ears, momentarily convinced as to his astonishing perfection … and also, that we've landed together on some perfect other planet ... before my brain finally readjusts to this one.<p>

* * *

><p>He goes to turn towards me, but I lay a hand on his butt to hold him in place, running a soft digit over the wicked, magical wording,<p>

"Fuckin' ... holy Christ ... _wow_," is all I can muster.

He gasps out an attempted laugh.

"Cannot fucking _believe_ you did this, Brian."

He turns his head, flushed, to look back at me, spitting out a stuttered, breathy response.

"Cannot _believe_ … I actually went _that __long_ … without an _ass ramming."_

I burst out laughing.

"_Do_ talk me out of it," he continues, "if I _ever_ suggest it again, won't you?"

I kiss his bum.

"Are you nuts? Waiting was the best, hottest, thing we ever did. We should do it _regularly_."

He rolls over onto his side and I slide up next to him.

"Just not this weekend."

"Ah, _no_," I smile. "Not on our fucking _honeymoon_."

As soon as it leaves my lips, I'm like, _holyshit, holyfuckingshit _– it really is here! Guess I'd longed for it so much it began to seem unreal ...

* * *

><p>We grin in each others' face, kissing and nuzzling like star struck idiots.<p>

"Have I told you I love you, any time recently?"

"Oh, well, yes," he responds, running a hand up into my hair, "but do feel free to tell me as often as you like."

We giggle, kiss, and nuzzle further.

"So, just for the record, in case you didn't know, your little surprise worked."

"What, surprised you?"

"Um, ya, that, and like, _HUGELY_ turned me on, again, in case you didn't notice."

He laughs in delight.

"Yes. Well, I _did_ notice something. Or, my arse did, anyway. I may not sit for weeks."

We giggle.

I touch his face.

"I like so much, that you knew it would totally flip my switch."

He smiles.

"I like that I did, too."

* * *

><p>"So when in fucking hell did you do it?" I ask. "And how in <em>all<em> fucking hell did I miss seeing it before now?"

"You don't recognize it?"

"Recognize what?"

"The style, or the font, or whatever. He said you would."

My eyes narrow.

"_Who_ said I would?"

He grins.

"_Jim._ Jim did it, Curt."

Holy shit. Of course! Jim, who's done all his own tattoos, which are admittedly pretty good, but not at all something that's ever appealed to me or I've taken much of an interest in … til now.

"At like 4 o'clock this morning," he continues, "in the downstairs loo, during one of the few times you actually slept for more than three minutes."

I turn him face down again, and lean over to look, to touch, still in disbelief.

"My _name_, carved into your _body_, Brian."

"Yes, my love. It's only perfect," he says, turning himself back. "Your name, your _beautiful_ name, carving a groove in my flesh, just like falling in love with you has carved a groove into my soul, you could say; my heart."

"Jesus!" I shriek. "Okay, but no tattoos on your heart, though."

We giggle stupidly.

He touches my face. He's beaming.

"Our own personal good luck charm."

I nod. "A talisman, maybe."

"Yes. So that we'll never break up."

He smiles.

"No chance. There shall be _no_ divorces for Brian and Curt."

I shrug.

"Guess I'll have to get my own tattoo, then, just to cement things. Did it hurt?"

"Are you kidding? Of _course_, but trust me, it was_ extremely, extremely_ worth it, if it made you go nuts like that just now."

"Mmm, _yummy,"_ I growl, and kiss him. "So who came up with the _meat stamp _thing. Fucking genius. Fucking _crazy hot_._"_

"It was Jim's idea, actually. I told him I wanted an image that suggested raunch and perversion and _filth_, but would somehow still be romantic."

"Well, I'm telling you, it totally, absolutely fits the motherfucking bill."

He smiles.

"I thought so, too."

"Is it okay, though, if I'm a little weirded out that Jim saw, and like, probably touched, your ass?"

He laughs harder.

"He had to have," I ask, "right?"

"Yes, but I can assure you, it was with _much_ convincing and coaxing, all the way through – assuring him that closeup exposure to my bum, however fine, would _not_ make him gay. By the end, after he'd downed three beers, he was only slightly more relaxed, and believe it or not, _did_ rather reluctantly confess that I had a nice arse, and that that made him happy for you – _but_ he was quick to immediately assure me he didn't _fancy_ it."

We laugh together.

"Oh my god, I can't _wait_ to ride him about this."

"Not in the way you just rode me."

I smile.

"No. And, I have to say I know he's straight, but … that _anyone_ could look at such a perfect set of exquisite, tight cheeks and _not_ want them, not totally crave 'em and fall in love and _need_ to _have_ 'em, is just, utterly beyond my understanding, frankly."

He grins.

"You're a big fan of my backside, then."

"Um, _ya_," I laugh. "And, not just your backside. Your _front_ side, too."

We laugh. We kiss. I reach for his half hard cock, absently going over it as we talk.

"Okay, so, how would you rate our wedding night, so far? What would your cock say?"

He grins.

"Oh, that's easy. It'd say it's been a right smashing success."

We laugh.

"Ya, and I hate to sound like a nun, but … _so_ totally worth the wait."

He smiles warmly.

"Yes, my love. It was. Brilliant idea."

I grin in his face.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

We kiss.

"Okay, and, to sound absolutely _nothing_ like a nun, may I just say, ramming that sweet, perfect little butt has _definitely_ put me in the mood for a bit of that, myself."

He grins, softly, tenderly touching my face.

"Of course. It's _all_ I want for you, my love, if you're sure you feel ready."

I look at him a moment. I sigh and roll onto my back, as does he, the both of us facing the moon and stars, holding hands in the firelight of twin adjacent bonfires, basking in the saltwater air, the scent of nearby candles, roses, and each other.

I've thought it more than a few times since we met, and more, still, since Ibiza: how oddly content I am, how happy, how devoid of my usual paranoia and nerves; the feeling that I'm _safe_ – at _last_ I'm safe - that I can, after a lifetime's inability, finally relax.

But, okay, yes, the reality of opening myself up, literally, of allowing someone _in_ again – and, as I told him I wanted - putting myself in position so as to purposely retrace that awful night nine months back, in the hopes of taking back the memory, of wiping it, finally, forever, from my consciousness …

Is semi-terrifying, ya, no question. It's maybe nuts. There _is_ the danger it could trigger harrowing memories – the worst of my life, and who knows what that could do to my head?

But ... doesn't love conquer all? Isn't that what they say? And in my gut, my marrow, I mean … does it make me naïve if I honestly believe that Brian – my _husband_ - is the one person in the world who can – who _would _- see me through it – bring me back safely, should anything happen?

And doesn't that mean that, ultimately, there's no risk?

Am I correct?

Only reward.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>

Just a reminder for those who may have forgotten, as this has become an exceedingly long story ... the setting of the film this story is based on - _Velvet Goldmine_ - is 1972, which is why Brian's tattoo reflects that date. Also, to give credit where it's due: the tattoo idea I stole from My Gay Husband Dan Savage, from his wonderful 2005 book "The Commitment", which chronicles his (Canadian) marriage to his boyfriend, at some point prior to which the two decide to get their own "property of" tattoos, done up to look like USDA meat stamps. So ya, totally ripped that idea off ...

(Btw USDA stands for United States Department of Agriculture, and at one point food such as meat would have had a USDA stamp on the packaging which suggested it had passed inspection, or something.)

Also, for anyone who maybe doesn't realize, just a reminder that gay marriage was not at all legal or even discussed or an issue at all in 1972, and wouldn't be literally for another 30-ish years beyond that. I didn't know when I began writing this story that it would go there, and even the scene, way back, in which Curt first proposes to Brian on the beach, was a total surprise to me. When I began that chapter, I had no idea I was going to make Curt propose. It just sorta happened, and felt right for his character. I think it's partly due to the appeal of writing "innocent, old fashioned Curt". Because he's such a nutcase in the film - the quintessential out of control, druggie, groupie fucking rock star, and yet the film's writer and director Todd Haynes chose to have him leave an orgy - a room _full_ of people he can fuck - in order to be alone with Brian - which is just tremendously romantic on the face of it, and from which this entire story was born. That one thing, as well as his longing for Brian (in the film) even after he'd been dumped by him, reflected a neediness and sweetness and emotional capacity that so belied his crazed persona, and so I've enjoyed the contrast there, and playing up that side of him in my story.


	60. Lots

So like I've done probably a couple dozen times already in these three Ibiza weeks, but never in hell imagined doing on my wedding night … I find myself, yes, naked … but out in the fucking _ocean_, getting sloshed around by the waves, Brian having liberated from my clothes now that his fantasy of getting fucked while I'm wearing leather has been realized ...

Okay, but wait. That's not entirely true. _I_ liberated myself from my clothes, just now ... slowly, bit by bit, in front of him. In other words …

He fucking made me strip.

As in, _striptease_.

* * *

><p>I told him <em>fuck<em> no, no fucking _way, _that I'm from _Detroit,_ we aren't caught _dead_ doing such pansy-ass shit … but, see, it's the thing with these goddamn Europeans. They're sly. They got that underhanded charm and big, pretty blinking eyes and pouty lips that protrude forward when you tell 'em no … and combined with endless sexual promises, ego-flattering praise and finally, threats of divorce ... it sorta weakens your resolve ...

Let's just say, it wasn't pretty.

As in, swishy. No swaying of hips. No peekaboos, or swinging around of articles of clothing, or droppin' 'em over his face. No fucking way. The jacket slipped off first – slow – at his absolute insistence, and I dumped it on the ground next to me, which pleased him plenty.

"Oh, god," he gushed, sitting bolt upright, "We should do this _nightly_. That thing coming off you is like an _orgasm_."

"Whatever," I groaned, and went to yank off my top, but mid way through, he made me stop.

"_Wait!" _he shrieked, when I had it up over my face.

"Come on, Brian," I said, my words muffled.

"_No!_ Don't you _dare __move!_ Don't you realize what a droolingly fuckable torso you have? !"

"_No,"_ I snapped, and pulled the thing off me finally, dropping it, too, to the ground.

"I can't believe I haven't come all over it, yet. I should have my head examined."

"Fucking perv."

He grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing." He pointed and gestured impatiently. "Come on, now, Wild; trousers, next."

"I'm just a piece o' meat," I sighed, fingering the somehow-still-attached top button.

"Yes, my dear. And the day I no longer view you as the sexiest, most succulent piece of man-meat that ever was will be a sad day, indeed."

I paused, looking up in the air, pretending to think about it, and undid the button.

"Actually, what am I saying? That day will never …" he whispered as I pushed the material down my thighs " … come."

Next I know, he crawled towards me, hands and knees, face right in my crotch ... and the whole night sky lit up – each of us so badly needing, aching to use his mouth … which is how I ended up in the water, going over myself with, of all things, anti-bacterial soap.

* * *

><p>Sorry, Mediterranean, that I'm using you like a bathtub, but when your dick's just fully reamed an ass, and you're thinking you want it sucked again ... it, and your butt, had best be sparking clean.<p>

Yep, he dropped about 52 hints that nothing relaxes anal muscles more than warm, oral massage. And even though I've now experienced it and even though it cranked me up something crazy – like few things have – the thought still freaks me, a bit. Because. It's just so _weird_, so fucking raunchy, eating an ass; not something I guess I realized people even did. That Brian is more experienced than me, at least I guess in what would be considered kink practices, is pretty much a blessing, right? Hardly a curse, I acknowledge, except that I inexplicably find myself acting like a teenager about it – embarrassed by my lack of knowledge and wanting to pretend I know more than I do, which is just so fucking stupid. Firstly, because I'm a bad liar, and secondly, because, as he says, educating and indoctrinating a nervous virgin – that would be me - is pretty much the hottest thing imaginable.

* * *

><p>Back up at our blanket he won't let me towel off – he insists I warm and dry myself by the bonfire, which I tell him isn't very efficient, but it's only, of course, so he can watch.<p>

"Oh god," he gushes, sitting up and staring. "Glistening, sopping, naked Curt Wild, by the firelight. You have no _idea_ how _pornographic_ you are."

"_Brian_."

"If I had a camera right now, I'd be _rich_."

"You _are_ rich. Just gimme the damn towel," I say, reaching, but he grabs it and tucks it behind his back.

"You'll have to come get it," he whispers, grinning.

* * *

><p>"Perverted prick tease," I hiss, rubbing and gliding my wet body into his.<p>

"That's me," he whispers all husky, rubbing and gliding back. "You're all clean for me, then?" he asks excitedly, lowering a hand down between us. "But not the pits, right?" he says, raising my arm and burying his face in there.

Talk about pervy, even though I worked up a sweat fucking him in my jacket, he made me promise, as usual, not to soap up the stinkiest part.

Yes, he's managed even to fetishize my _armpits_.

* * *

><p>So we do a bit of a dry – actually wet – humping, and then he stops and pushes me back so I'm on my knees, and crawls out from under me, only to get down on stomach and elbows so that I'm inches from his face, with that cock-shatteringly beautiful back and butt laid out before me, upside down 'property of' tattoo in evidence ...<p>

"I'll have to _inspect_ you, of course," he mutters, before downing my dick.

Okay, ya, _this_ – _all_ of this – bright moon, brilliant sky, rolling ocean waves, that round, perfect bubbleass and warm, masterful mouth – the boy is, no joke, a born cocksucker – good – insanely perfect as it all is ... I push him back.

This night is about many things, but foremost in my mind, of course, is my pending deflowering, over which I'm mildly terrified, but also absolutely determined to honor and do right … which, to me, means the whole package - coming when he's with me, inside.

He looks up, pouting and batting those big blues.

"But," he whines, "you'll be more relaxed if you've just come."

I touch his face. His skin is like silk.

God, I love this moment - the edge of forever, of everything coming true; the genuine dividing line that is this night, this weekend, this _man_, to me.

"I know. "I cup his cheek. "I just want it to be right."

He looks at me a minute.

"I know," he nods. "Me, too."

* * *

><p>So, in a classic, if X-rated, case of 'be careful what you wish for', I'm biting down on the pillows I'm laid out over; a writhing, muttering, cursing, slithering mess.<p>

It's genuine agony, what a mouth can do to a hole. A string he's tugging – tormenting – that's positively wired to my dick, causing powerful, plan-undermining, slow-mo electrical sex-currents which quickly ramp up in intensity to the point where I'm scurrying, crawling away from him in a feeble attempt to _manage_ it, to _stick_ to the fucking plan, only to be yanked firmly back by the hips.

It's _insane_, this rimming business, (or as he calls it, _Inverted Blowjob) - _almost literally maddening. Sex, but it's own subset of sex – _Deep Sex - _transcendent, brain-bending, consciousness altering, the meeting place of perversion, taboo, and lovemaking – the latter surely defined as the loving, and showing of love, for even the most universally reviled of body parts.

* * *

><p>In 30 quick seconds I'm at the aching, throbbing hilt – and, following several more unrelenting minutes of what for him is sheer joy, as evidenced by his humming, and even, at points, <em>singing -<em> completely withered of will.

Which, somewhere in the far back of my mind I realize, was maybe the plan. Because. For Brian, oral is as primal as it gets – the center of his sexual universe – the very first place his brain goes, and making me _come_ from oral, is, without question, his numero uno. (It apparently matters little if it's the front or the back.) And while he generally respects my wishes, he can also be a bit of an impatient brat, intent on getting his way, and hence, is not above finding an activity to render me helpless via hitting up the dopamine - the most darkly hidden corners of the brain - in the way that maybe only heroin ever has.

* * *

><p>Does he really know that he's doing this, though? Is he, my husband, really that devious? And lastly, I ask myself, drooling and slithering ... do I really fucking <em>care?<em>

The answer lies in my cock seeking, and finding, a groove in the pillows - just rough enough, just soft enough – and, both thanking and cursing Satan that we forgot the fucking cock ring – slipping, helplessly, into a slow, intense _grindgrindgrind _motion – his mouth, his lips, following the whole while ... and 'fore long ... _it's just all over ... _

A blinding streak jets 'cross the tilted sky.

A microburst explodes over the sand.

I feel woozy. I feel sick. My palms itch, lids flutter, and whole body goes into that almost-swallow-the-tongue, plead-with-the-gods-to-survive this, pre-shudder shudder, followed by ...

_!WHAM! _

_Scream, shake, shudder, gasp, crawl ... collapse ... pant, pant, pant ..._

* * *

><p>When I come to, he's laying on my back, stroking my shoulders, cooing in my ear, and somehow, for some damned reason ... <em>laughing<em>.

I try to sound annoyed.

"_Something funny, asshole?"_

"No," he giggles, "Not at all, my love. I was very bad, just now, that's all, but I can't help myself. There really _is_ nothing I love more in the entire world than making you come. It makes me _delirious_."

Christ. In just how many ways _have_ I won the husband lottery? And as if, even if I wanted to, there was any way possible I could be angry right now with these ten billion post-orgasm love endorphins flooding me.

He rolls off and rinses several rounds with some antibacterial mouth stuff before spitting it all out into the sand, twice, wiping with a clean towel, and throwing himself at me.

"There," he grins, after mauling me. "I _am_ sorry, my love," he says, trying but failing to look it, "I got carried away. Please don't be angry."

Before I can speak, he stops, cups both hands over his mouth and nose, and _sniffs_.

"Oh god. Do I smell like bum?"

I burst out laughing,

Looking guilty, he quickly adds.

"Not that yours smells! Oh my god! It's perfect! It's lovely and delicious, actually!"

"_Shut up,_ Brian," I laugh, snake a hand to his hip to jerk him towards me, and french him to within an inch of his life, before pulling back.

"_That_ fucking answer your question?"

He smiles, dreamily, eyes closed.

"Yes. Feel free to keep answering it, though."

I laugh.

"You don't _taste_ like ass, either, so that's good."

We laugh, and lean in, glancing foreheads, eyes twinkling with love-struck mischief.

"Anyway, again, I'm sorry to have … disrupted your plans. I'm a little shit, I know."

"Yes. But shut the fuck _up_, already, okay? You were _incredible_."

He grins.

"I was. I _do_ love your arse. If it isn't frighteningly obvious by now."

I smile.

"Anyway, it was half my fault." I raise a hand to his lips. "This mouth … I should know by now, when it wants to something … probably best not interfere."

We laugh.

"And we got all night, right baby? _Lots_ more opportunities to lose my virginity."

"Yes," he grins. "Lots."

* * *

><p><span><strong>Author's note:<strong>

Very sorry for the long delay in between chapters. I have had terrible writer's block, hence this chapter, which I don't think is one of my best - just couldn't seem to get out my right brain this time, despite many frustrating hours of work over the last several weeks.

Also, I've had a bout of eye strain due to staring at computer screens too much at work, which makes it hard to come home and stare at a screen more in order to write this story.

Anyway, my hopes are that the readers enjoy this 60th (!) chapter, regardless.

Thanks. Feedback helps.


	61. Tidbits

**Author's note:** I'm afraid I simply don't have the time it takes to give this story it's due in the way that I have previously. I do however have a bunch of **unfinished** honeymoon bits I'm just gonna throw out here, none of which address the huge issue of Curt losing his 'virginity' to Brian in the way he most wants.

I feel pretty bad about it because this story has meant a lot to me, and the losing of Curt's virginity has been such a central theme in the entire thing, so I'm genuinely sorry I don't have the will or the ability right now to address it in the way it deservesto be addressed.

**If** the few readers who have stuck with the story would like more than what I've posted previously, I have lots more honeymoon and more importantly, post honeymoon bits of a more complete nature, such as the boys landing back in London, met by Mandy at the airport; them meeting one of their biggest musical heroes, then a limo ride home to Brian's London mansion, and I also have a few bits from the road, but nothing I'm afraid from the all important recording and producing of Curt's album.

I will only post these additional chapters if at least one of your is interested. Otherwise won't bother. **Please let me know. Send me a message or better yet, post a review. Thanks.**

* * *

><p><strong>TUB<strong>

We sink into the warm soapy tub, kneeling face to face, hands up into the other's hair, kissing messily. Fingers intertwine on their way to neck and nipple and thigh and wet pubic hair and gradually he's turning me round.

It's the moment I wait for, in ways, I _live_ for. The moment he claims me as his own.

His hands raise to my shoulders, gently directing them round as he steps back to give me clearance. It feels graceful, fluid, this movement, this unspoken erotic agreement between us, in which I turn myself over to him, placing myself in his possession, trusting him with the direction we're to head, with the full command of my body.

I grip the tub's curved overhanging edge, arch my backside upward, and lean forward, knees thankful for the squishy rubber pad beneath. He follows, right behind, never shy, face in my ear, tongue dancing on my neck, whispering filth as he presses inward without hesitation, until the flesh of our wet thighs meet, my body swallowing him whole. My mouth springs open from the pain, breath gushing, tears jumping to my eyes.

Round his arms go, meeting at hip and thigh, securing me firmly to him.

As the pain subsides, between soft panting, we kiss sideways, with passion. The candles flicker and dance around us, softly illuminating the room.

He begins with a slow movement, extremely slow, and it's slightly maddening. I rock softly back against him

* * *

><p><strong>KITCHEN TIMER<strong>

He flips the coin, slaps it down rather dramatically onto the back of his hand and makes me guess.

"Tails."

He shakes his head slowly.

"Leave it to a bottom."

"Fuck off!"

He lifts his hand and sneaks a look.

"Last chance. Do you wanna suck me off, or don't you?"

"I wanna _start_ you off, and then _finish_ you off, does that answer your question?"

He grins and pulls his hand back for the reveal.

"Too fucking bad. Me first!", he bellows, laughing, showing me the coin with the head-side up.

"Bastard! I never get you soft! You're always half way gone by the time I'm–"

Wham! He lands on my mouth for a deep, breathless kiss, before pulling back and giving me that heavily lidded look.

"Alright. You go first."

"Er … okay," I whisper shakily, head spinning, not about to argue.

Back he lays, on the pillow, arm reaching out for the timer which sits on the night table.

As he grabs it, I remind him.

"A minute. Four rounds- two each, of one minute, then 30 seconds, then–"

"–We've gone over this 3 times already! Just suck my fucking dick!"

"Whoever makes the other come first, wins," I add, grinning.

"And you think that's gonna be you," he whispers, turning the dial on the timer.

"I don't think, Curt; I know," I whisper back, as I lower my head.

Oh! But it is a lovely sight, his cock, stark naked, in repose, resting comfortably on his thigh, innocent to the world, to the competition it's unwittingly been entered into.

Tick, tick, tick, the timer counts off loudly. Shit, no time for penis-gazing. Down I dive, enveloping him, pulling it away from his body, straight up, where I can have the most influence. I do love it in this soft virgin state, not only because it's so pliable and easily taken, but also for the sheer joy of claiming every single thing that thus ensues. There are truly few things more wickedly satisfying in this world than turning around the mind of an otherwise perfectly contented cock.

I stop and pull off, just for a brief moment, to kiss his balls, for they lay so prettily beneath, and before I resume … _dingdingding _! The bloody bell sounds, making us both jump in place.

"Fucking thing," I mutter, as Curt laughs and changes places with me.

"It was your idea, Demon."

"I know, but …"

He lowers his head, which hovers close, eyes admiring, so much so that I laugh despite myself.

"It's just a cock, Curt. Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"Shut up. Yours is just so fucking … Just turn the motherfucking dial."

I laugh, do as I'm told, close my eyes, lay back, and …

Oh, but his lips _are_ silky smooth, his mouth soft and strong … his tongue … oohh … oh god …

Tick!Tick!Tick! Christ the bloody thing's annoying, and distracting, right next to my head … where was I …?

I pry open a lid to watch. Nothing more beautiful in this world than a dirty-blonde boy with Satan's own lips.

OH!fuck … a _minute_ of this vice grip? I … may? … not? … last … ?

bob-bob-bob … bob-bob-bob … bob … bob … bob-bob-bob … is his pattern, hand in tandem, echoing succinctly, tongue … needless-to-say brilliant.

I'm breathing out loud, head in the stars, well on my way, when …

_DINGDINGDING _!

"Fucking bastard cunt clock !" I bellow, "I hate this stupid bloody game!"

He laughs as he pulls me up by the arm.

"Too fucking bad. No way I'm giving up now."

I sit back in a crouch, pouting.

He yanks on my hand, having none of it, pulling me close.

"Get down there, Demon."

Phew … it's enough to spin a boy's head clear off it's axis.

Down indeed, I do hover, and it's my turn to admire the half hardness I've created.

"Ready?" he asks, hand on the winder.

"Go," I whisper.

Tick-tick-tick …

My lips part, tongue protrudes just slightly, easing the passage as I take him in, natural as the day I was born, as a field of daisies, as the clouds floating by on a lazy summer's day …

His flesh is warm and gently pulsing as I work my mouth … backward and forward, getting him very wet, very quick. Thrilled I am, so proud, always, when the space available to him, the free air surrounding him, lessens.

A quick upward glance finds him pressed deep into the pillow, chest flushed and heaving softly, in a state of unqualified, unremitting bliss, to the point where–

_DINGDINGDING_!

"Mudduhthuckuh!" I manage to blurt around his cock, before pulling off.

He laughs despite himself.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Very funny," I pout, as he leans up, plants me with a firm kiss, and spins me round to take his place. I reach for the clock and wind the timer. Before I've set it back on the table, a moan has crept straight up my spine to my lips. I don't look this time, I just … concentrate … reminding myself that the object of the game is _not_ to come, because that will mean I will 'lose'. On the other hand, of course … when one's cock is so brazenly, rigorously sucked off, by a creature intent on 'winning', … how ever _can_ one lose?

Back … back my head goes, driven there by spectacular oral talents, tooth-loosening, pallet-collapsing suction, and the sheer velvet goldmine that is his mouth. I'm floating along … breathing in stutters and long shallow bursts, rendered void by reason of insanity, without a single care in the world … when …

dingdingding!– _SMASH!_

My eyes fly open to find that Curt has shimmied sideways, grabbed the clock and sent it crashing to the floor … all without a moment's interruption of the blessed Game.

"You're … cheating … ", I manage to eek out, lids fluttering, eyes wrinkling into tiny prunes from the relentless bob-fest. I gulp down air, I curse, I writhe, moan and twist about, inadvertently brushing a hand against his thigh, when somewhere far off in my mind I recall from rudimentary anatomy class … … isn't the human thigh right next to …?

I reach and dip a flat, open palm into the plate of vanilla lube by the bedside … and extend it to the magical dangling appendage, grabbing hold, and … thrusting with all my might. A surprised audible moan can immediately be heard from the region of my cock, accompanied by a slowing of his motion.

I grin. We are competing now- he's broken the rules, and so have I.

Jerk I do, in the manner I know is best for him- firm, shallow and lightning fast, at a rate only a fully oiled palm can achieve, concentrating ever intently on his sweetest of sweet spots.

Quickly though, he redoubles his efforts- opening his mouth and spreading out his lips for maximum grip and greater suction … and we're off …

I thrust, quick and serious, somehow convinced I can beat him at this game by beating him off, despite an inability to keep still, aim terribly well, or process thoughts. A dozen times or more, my hand slides off and I'm grabbing air trying to find him again. It's the problem with '69'- which this game was supposed to be the antidote to, (Curt naming it, with a grin, '_68_')- the central issue being an inability to focus and concentrate whilst you are each being 'done'.

Still, it's too late. I've got him and aside from the slip-ups, I'm not letting him go. The problem is … neither is Curt, and within the space of 30 seconds I begin rapidly losing contact with the outside world. At this very moment, he bats my hand away and repositions his body so that he is now straddling mine, facing me.

Seconds later the terrible expert suction proves too much … and with a great breathy shriek, hips propelling upward, I fire off in a blistering orgasm.

As I'm panting and trying to gather any semblance of my wits, he is suddenly propping up my neck and torso with several firm pillows and climbing up my body in a manner he never has … knees placed on either side of me. I look, still dizzy, not quite grasping what is happening … until he places one hand behind my head, for support and control, and the other at the base of his cock.

I blink. I look up, straight up the line of his torso which hovers immediately above my face. He looks down, eyes clouded over with lust and impatience. They meet my gaze before traveling to my mouth, which then opens like a drawbridge, and is instantly filled.

His spare hand drops, joins that at the back of my head, and his hips beginning moving. I take him quite deep and almost immediately feel myself start to gag, which frustrates me no end, but there is a simple solution, which is to grasp the base, as it limits depth and thus permits the freedom of full, uncareful, quite enthusiastic thrusting.

Great christ, it is a different animal, a different feeling and form. It can't help but be a bit jarring and intimidating, a bit unnerving, to be propped up in this awkward manner, to be kept in such tight confines to his body as he feeds you his cock, holding you hostage to it as hip and belly and pubic hair approach and back away, balls bouncing softly, faster and faster, into neck and chin. It can't help but completely and utterly blow your mind, to be in the middle of his movements, of the swift and urgent and beautiful swayings of his body as he quite literally takes hold of your face and fucks it …

Phew! It's one thing to be taken hold of in bed, hips grasped roughly, body jerked upright, ass fucked without mercy or permission, but one's head, one's very _face_ …?

My mind is overburdened and firing off in all directions, so powerfully erotic and addictive is he; a poison seeping inward, into the brain tissue which slowly, bit by bit, becomes disoriented and intoxicated.

I'm convinced this is _the_ moment, certainly the defining _bottom_ moment of my life, to be placed beneath him and used as a vessel, a tool for his pleasure, for his ease of access and his comfort, even as mine is taken away, seized, occupied, helpless to inhale his skin, unashamedly dominated, in a manner that engages the fives senses, no, _whips_ them into acute and immediate focus.

It feels … extremely dirty, thrillingly indecent, the Answer to my deepest, most forbidden cravings.

Tell me again … _why_ have is it that we've never done this before … ?

My eyes train straight upwards. The view from here is .

* * *

><p><strong>IN THE MIDDLE<strong>

With his wrists bound firmly above I turn him onto his side, facing away. Between his knees I place two pillows to softly spread him, slide myself downward, and lay one next to my face, for support.

Immediately then before me are the twin beauties, soft and strong and shapely and just as sweet as all fuck, which I massage and kiss and knead while caressing his right hip, running my hand softly up and down his outter thigh and around to his belly and chest, all while inching my tongue toward that gorgeous pink rosebud.

His reaction is instantaneous and indescribably wonderful and I'm tingling with glee and mirth. There is that upwards exhalation, straight upwards, signifying shock all over again, followed by soft, delighted breathy laughs and exclamations of disbelief which just make your heart leap with joy. As I delve further however, pressing and pointing my tongue and nudging him lovingly and persistently, his responses intensify, to the point of slowly panted gasps and curse words, and full body slithering. It is here that all delight, both his and mine, turn toward raging lust, for I'm quite literally in the middle of this magnificently sexual being as he writhes in erotic agony, as his legs move softly about, his feet turn, his beautiful fit torso slides deliciously around in place … though the latter won't do. I lay a firm hand on his hip and pull him backward, to me, as I want, I must have, a long, unbroken line, one of continuous access to him.

It _does_ make one appreciate the ingenious, brilliant things tongues are, the sensations they can elicit in another human being, causing the most delicious feelings one will ever know, nearly unbearable as they ripple through the body, just by virtue of the tiniest, simplest movements; circling and flicking and dragging and licking, and in this case, owning and possessing this most highly prized, sensitive, extraordinarily private and to me, sacred and beautiful place, where I alone am permitted.

A glance upward finds a thin sheen of sweat forming across the breadth of his back, with shoulder blades more pointed than usual due to the upright placement of arms. I'm hoping it's not uncomfortable for him, but judging from the sweet, slippery rhythm of his body, I'm guessing not. Oh god, I so want to see his face at this moment, to read in it what I'm doing to him, it being the sole drawback to having mine in his bottom; I so want to kiss him and tell him what it means to me, this trust, this turning over of this most secret, precious place, to me.

My hand dips into the lube and slides round front, to his cock, which, I'm pleased to find, is fat and firm. I swear I could touch him here every minute of every day, and always, each time, feel this same surge of excitement and hunger. His body is like a great sultry banquet to me, filled with savory, satisfying flavors and exotic aromas, but his cock is and always will be the centerpiece, the appetizer, the main course, and the dessert, all rolled into one.

With feather light touches I caress the length of him, oiling him fully before taking hold and beginning firm, slow, even strokes, in perfect time with the movements of my tongue. Instantly his breath and tone change and deepen. The writhing stops momentarily, except for his head, which is caught literally in the middle, between these two sides of his body that I'm worshiping. Backward it extends, the wet ends of his hair carried along, until I can see his flushed, dampened face, his eyes sealed shut. Oh god, I want to kiss those lids, that gorgeous tense mouth, from which his exhalations are continuous, seeming to pour forth in one long stream with hardly a breath taken.

I know what's happening; he's caught up inside of that place in his mind, that unbearable and yet wickedly delectable twisted up cycle of torment that he both fears and craves will be endless.

His words come back to me.

"I mean I literally almost can't stand it, the way you slow me down and then hold me on that knife edge. It makes me _completely_ fucking crazy. I swear to Christ I would give away ANY secret in that moment."

The secret, alas is mine.

His cock has solidified in my hand and I'm cursing myself for placing the ring on the night table, too far to reach, for I want this to go on forever, but I'm not about to interrupt the beautiful rhythm, the gorgeous small, slow grind of his hips. Momentarily I stop the movement of my hand, just to see … and my excitement spikes as the grinding continues- oh god in heaven, he's doing it, he's fucking the circle that my fingers are creating, faster and faster until I can't follow his lead, the pressure on my neck becoming too much, and so I pull my hand off. For a beat the fucking continues, so primal a movement that it is, but then stops and I'm aware of deep, excited panting in both of us.

My hand pulls him back to me, solidly, and holds him for a beat as I position my tongue for a wide, slow lick, allowing his exhalations to guide me as I apply it a half dozen times with loving force, before allowing my hand to reach and resume it's motion. I toy with him, moving my fingers rapidly while the attention to his backside slows to a tormenting crawl, and vice versa, before settling in for the final, very quick kill.

It is here, as the storm clouds gather in one place in his mind, that the words, barely audible, extremely breathy, and quickly blurted, form.

"Christ … holychrist … oh_shit_ … holyfuck … _ohfuck_! …"

Until finally, with the twin rhythms in perfect sync and at their fastest, breakneck pace, there is this single, rather pointed, half exhaled/half inhaled shriek …

"_FUCK_!"

And he's off. His body rockets in place, head snapping straight backward, and the most exquisite piece of language ever uttered by man erupts from that open mouth, an unintelligible burst of air and passion and pain and beauty and release.

I'm so overjoyed and turned on I'm visibly shaking, but I force myself to move in the other direction, away from him, toward the rinse, for I must, must have his mouth. I turn hard, gulp it inward, swirl it thoroughly and intensely through mouth, over lips and though gums and teeth, getting every corner, every crevice, and then spit with force into the cup, dizzyingly aware the whole time of his limp, drenched, panting, and bound form, immediately behind.

He's still gasping as I turn him swiftly onto his back and land on his face, hard, stretching my arms upward to his hands as we moan and fuck each other with our mouthes. I feel a bit guilty, for he hasn't caught his breath and here I am suffocating him, but I'm incapable of holding back, my excitement and lust proving too great.

When the lack of oxygen finally forces our lips apart, the deep reverse suction results in an audible_ pop_, akin to a cork exiting a wine bottle. At another time I would laugh with delight, but at the moment, my raging hard-on will not allow it. Back I lean to catch his knees, pushing forward until they bend and reach for his shoulders. His eyes balloon out from behind his slow blinking, weighted lids, in disbelief that he is now to be subjected to yet _more_.

He exhales my name. It's so soft, so ball-bustingly sultry, my dick break out in a sweat. I reach and lather us both in lube before leaning forward towards his neck, the head of my cock slick against his opening and pointing directly toward it.

One by one above us, his fingers wrap themselves tightly round the headboard rungs, … something that on it's own I find wildly exciting. Spent as he might be, nearly finished, he's knows he's about to have as great a need of hanging on as he ever has.

"Brian … _god_", he whispers almost imperceptibly, as my cock slips just inward, and I am now looking at his clenched teeth and upended jaw. "Fuck … fuck! …" he mutters. Every instinct tells me to keep going and yet it absolutely kills me to cause him any degree of pain. Torn, I remain still, watching as he gasps out his discomfort.

I lean into his hair and plead with him.

"Y'okay?

"Yes," he gulps back a pant, "Do it."

I hold my breath and plunge inward, carefully as I can, as he grunts and grimaces further. As before, he feels gloriously snug and form-fitting, taylor made for my cock, which I slide until my hips are flush with his body.

I feel awful for hurting him, I can't bear it, but at the same time … Christ, what a brain-spinningly delicious sensation, to be buried so deep within him, to actually experience the beautiful rhythmic pulse of his body _from the inside_ … indescribably wonderful on it's own, while at the same time proving the sweetest, most anticipatory moment a boy could wish for.

The natural urge creeps up my spine, and when I sense he's adjusted, I thrust once, backward, and then forward again.

Oh god, the sounds this simple movement elicits- the most gorgeous breathy gasp/grunt imagineable, and I've immediately grabbed a hold of his face and am wide open on his mouth, sucking his lips inward as I fuck him slowly.

Mother of god, why have I never done this before? We're breathing into each other's mouthes, giving each other breath when the other has run out, moaning and murmuring in response to this deep, slippery erotic plunge, and I can barely stand it. Above, his knuckles have turned white and now his hips are in motion, curling upward to meet me.

No, Curt, I hear in myself think, no. _I'm_ fucking _you_.

Quicker I thrust, competing with him, landing hard against him …

Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!

… until he surrenders … and I seize hold and thrust straight downward, aiming for that particular sweet spot inside of him, which I clearly find, as the lad beneath me is suddenly tormented in a new and different way, volume having escalated, breathing and cursing and pitching in the most beautiful messy sexual frenzy one could possibly imagine.

I continue, there is no stopping me, not even to clamp on the cock ring which is just there within reach. It's far too bloody good, this feeling, this smooth transfer of heat and stiff, swollen, sodden skin, deep within him.

Kiss we do, open-mouthed and absolutely desperate … I lean up to place my hands over his, holding them firmly in place against the rungs … as … I break free, into a hard, deep, violent trot, in which his body, his whole being jolts with each thrust … as … I head straight into that spacey just-before nirvana, where I'm only remotely aware of the sounds coming out of him, the tongue lathering mine … and then I feel it, his now fattened cock bouncing between us.

Oh god … even in his advanced state of sexual exhaustion, even having come just 5 minutes before … He truly is the most insanely erotic beast the world has ever known, that he would be _this_ responsive, this fast, and I'm wild now, biting his lobe and muttering filthy gravel.

"I'm gonna fuck you til you pass out."

I've hit a nerve. He yanks sharply against the restraints and moans out loud, pitching his head to the side.

"Fuck you deep … split you wide open, right in two … _fuck_ you and fuck you and _fuck_ you …"

He's gasping and twisting and struggling beneath me, futilely yanking his bound wrists.

God! The sight of him, the exquisitely beautiful boy, trapped, unable to free himself, locked in a whirlwind of erotic torment, aided and abetted with the sexual sledgehammer that is my words. Truly, I can barely maintain, and yet … I want to drive him mad. A part of me really _does_ want him to pass out, from tension and arousal, from pleasure overload.

"I'm gonna _fuck_ you til you come … til you _beg _me to stop … fuck you … _fuck_ you–" In an instant my brain fuzzes out … and the tidal waves hits. Just above his face I call out, extending my neck backward, and shrieking something unintelligible, to the last breath, as my corpuscles slam sharply into reverse and all the blood rushes, leaving me tingling and dizzy.

I collapse forward into his body, each of us sopping and gasping fiercely, like twin racehorses. I kiss his neck, and after a moment, raise my face to his lips where we kiss quickly, sweatily, between gasps.

"I love you so much. You're absolutely incredible," I whisper.

His gaze locks me in place. The whites of his eyes are clean and crystal clear, but the blue has turned to slate, like the ocean. He gives me a searing look from behind heaviest of lids. His voice is stern and breathy.

"Untie me, Brian."

A shiver goes through me, but somehow, I shake my head.

"No."

I grab his face with both hands and kiss him hard, wide open, wet, and deep, beyond the point of breathlessness. It's what I intend to do with his cock- smother myself with it. I pull away finally, messily.

"I'm not done with you."

I extend my hands upward, following the path of his arms. Softly I caress his skin and toy with the bindings.

"I'm so incredibly turned on right now … seeing you like this … I can only think of one thing."

I lick his earlobe.

"I bet you know what that is."

I kiss his hair, neck, and earlobes … before sliding my mouth up his arms, softly, slowly, where I lick at his hands, at the bindings, and at the flesh beneath them.

I lather my tongue against his wrist, just above the bindings, and lick beneath the material, and then straight up the fat part of his thumb to the tip, before surrounding it with my lips and pulling it wetly into my mouth. Here my head bobs repeatedly, before I move onto the first, then middle fingers, sucking them one by one.


	62. Tidbits 2

A/n: Okay, more unfinished honeymoon tidbits ...

* * *

><p><strong>FUCKING FANS<strong>

We're laying back on the bed. Curt is smoking. His head is propped up by the pillow, while I am laying on my side facing him, elbow bent, head in hand, fingering his nipple. I speak softly.

"Tell me about sex you've had with fans."

Curt exhales smoke into the room, laughing.

"Brian, come on, why in fuck would you wanna hear that?!"

I tilt my head slightly, watching my finger trace a soft line across his pectoral.

"I'm horny."

He laughs again.

"We just fucked in the shower! My ass is still smarting!"

I smile and sink to hide my face in his shoulder.

"I know. But … I mean, there are very few topics left that we haven't covered, and this is one of them. So I'm just … curious."

He takes another drag and exhales. I watch the smoke trail out from his lips..

"We've never talked about it because … I mean, what's there to talk about? We've both done it, tons, and it's … sleezy, and worse than that … lame. That's pretty much what it comes down to. It's a quick meaningless fuck. You never see the person again, you never even know their name, and they pull up their pants and walk out the door."

I look at him.

"I know, but … I mean, wasn't it ever good?"

He looks back.

"Was it ever good for _you_?"

I stop and think.

"Um, well, sometimes it was, ya. I guess." I look off, embarrassed. "A few times, anyway, I mean, obviously nothing compared with the real thing or anything but …."

"What happened?"

I feel shy suddenly.

"I asked you first."

"Come on, Brian."

"No, it's just, I mean, there were a few times where it wasn't, y'know, horrid."

"Well, things that make you come don't tend to be horrid."

I'm practically squirming.

"No, but I mean …"

He whispers.

"Come on, tell me. What's the big deal? Now you've got _me_ curious."

I wrap a hand round his elbow and shimmy close. I clear my throat.

"Well …, I remember this one time, in Munich–"

"–Munich! A German guy?!"

I look at him.

"How do you know it was a guy?"

He scrambles slightly.

"Well, I just …" he shrugs. "I don't know, I just figured–"

"This one _was_ a guy, but I mean …"

"Well, because … I think you tend to go with guys more, don't you? That's what you told the bishop."

I think.

"Well, ya, I guess. Especially since the era of Mandy, I mean, women are just … anyway."

"Tell me about him."

"Well … he was, y'know, in the crowd–"

"–Jesus, your audiences are so huge, and the stage's so high up, I'm amazed you can even–"

"–No, I meant … the crowd … backstage."

He takes a drag and grins and looks at me.

"You've never told me this. You have crowds outside your dressing room?"

"Well, not quite- not at the door, I mean, but … certainly in the general waiting area." I look at him.

"You remember- you've been there."

"I don't remember any crowds."

I smile.

"That's because you were there, and I had security shoo them all away."

"But this was before we even–"

"–Curt, you forget, I had designs on you from the first moment."

He laughs.

"Ya shit. Even before I had any idea. Anyway, go on."

"Okay, well, so … I was coming back in after the 1st encore and–"

"–Wait, you mean to tell me people are lining up _before_ the show _ends_?"

I look at him, semi-flustered.

"Well, y'know, they … they wanna get a good spot, I suppose."

There is a pause, after which we both burst out.

"You fuckin bastard. You've had like 10 million groupies, haven't you? And the pick of the crop!"

I blush.

"Well … I've been … very successful, and so …"

We laugh further.

"Okay, seriously though. Go on. I wanna hear about Mr German Guy."

"Okay well …" I raise my head to him. "This was supposed to be me asking _you_ about groupies! How did this get turned around!?"

He laughs. He shrugs.

"Just my natural charm."

I kiss his shoulder.

"Yes. Okay, well, as I recall … I was heading for my dressing room and Mandy was off someplace, and I walked by the crowd and he sort of just … stood out. He was tall and rather nordic-looking- y'know, those lovely broad, high cheekbones."

He nods.

"Ya. We gotta lotta them in the midwest."

"And I just turned to him and he gave me this look like just … total top, like he was going to eat me alive, which, y'know, as a committed bottom …"

He smiles.

"You really dug."

I laugh.

"Yes, and so … well this is embarrassing. I gave my body guard a look and he followed me and I told him who he could let through and all that."

He grins wickedly.

"So, you were like fucking Henry the 8th. Selecting the night's fuck from amongst the tastiest meat in the room and having your underlings go and get him."

I blush.

"Yes, I know it sounds horrible and disgusting, but I mean, I did show _some_ discretion, you have to give me that, in not just pointing him out and jumping up and down screaming, '_him_- I want _him_!'"

We laugh.

"So, I mean, I went off to my dressing room down the hall, and I remember at the last second I turned round and he was watching me, and that in itself was pretty exciting."

"Ya, confirmation he wasn't after your fucking autograph. But weren't they all watching you?"

"Well, some of them actually _were_ after my autograph, and some of them I wouldn't go near with a 30 foot pole no matter what."

He laughs.

"But anyway, I quickly went in and changed out of my silver outfit and wig- Mary, my dresser of course did the work for me, and she knew enough to make it quick and then leave, dear girl, and then–"

"–Well wait, what were you wearing?"

I smile.

"Visuals, you always need your visuals."

He laughs.

"Ya, so … most men do."

"As I recall, I was topless, and I had these satin pants on."

He whistles.

"Phee-you! I know that look! The first time we fucked, you had those pants on!"

I laugh.

"Possibly, but I do have dozens of satin pants, Curt."

"Oh."

"Okay, so there was a knock at the door and I said 'come in', and in he walked, this striking blonde creature. Tall, and nicely built, and–"

"–Wearing?"

"I don't remember. Nothing too frilly. Definite top-wear."

He laughs.

"'Top-wear', ya."

"You know- kind of ordinary straight acting guy clothes. I think he wore maybe a black turtle neck and jeans."

"Wow, to _your_ show? That _is_ straight."

"Anyway! I was sitting down all casual-like, and he had these enormous blue eyes and he looked fucking fetching, and I asked him what his name was, just to break the ice, I guess. I'm always a bit jittery in that situation."

"I've never found out the name of any of my groupie fucks. I don't think I wanna know their names. So how old was this guy?"

I shrug.

"I don't know, around my age, maybe; maybe a year or two older."

"Did he seem nervous at all to you?"

"No, he seemed confident and y'know, assured. Hugely appealing, that. I mean, if it were me, and I had just walked into my favorite rock star's dressing room and he was sitting right there …?"

"Ya, and you're alone and about to fuck …"

"Exactly." I look at him. "What about you, would you be nervous?"

He nods.

"Fuck, of course. Maybe the thing is though, that you don't show it. Doesn't mean the guy wasn't shaking inside."

"No, I don't think he was. Anyway, his name was David."

"Christ, you remember his name?"

"Curt, this was only a few months before we met, so it isn't all that long ago."

"Ya, but … anyway. Go on."

"So he, y'know, I … I'm trying to remember how it began. Okay, ya, I stood up and I walked towards him, slow and easy, and he sort of grabbed me and immediately started this furious kissing."

"Mmm hm."

"And he put his hands on me, round my back, and down into my pants."

"Wow, no preamble, I guess."

"Nope. This was the back of my pants, though- he slid his hands straight down over my bottom-cheeks."

Curt smiles.

"Went right for 'em."

"Ya, and then he pushed me back onto the couch. I sort of fell back, which was pretty bloody nice. Took me by surprise."

"Okay."

(The author failed to complete Brian's recollection of this tryst, but did complete Curt's, below:)

"So … your turn, now."

"Brian, I don't know why you would wanna hear this."

"Don't fucking play games, Curt. I told you one. Spill."

"Mine are all sleezoid, though. You jump on the person, you jump off them, and they leave. Not very interesting."

"Did you never, I mean, did anyone ever do _you_?"

"I got an awful lot of blowjobs, an awful damn lot, and not very good ones, but no, it was very rare that I didn't top."

I feel like such a bloody stupid arse. The rape. Idiot!

He reads my mind.

"I'm talking this was before I was attacked."

"Okay, but … I mean, truly, did no one stand out? Was there never one that you thought about afterwards?"

He exhales and looks at the ceiling, thinking, and doesn't speak for long moments.

"No … okay, well … if I'm honest, I _do_ remember one girl, this one time."

I grin.

"A girl. Okay, I can handle it."

He looks at me.

"Brian–"

"–I'm just kidding! I'm past all that shit! Tell me!"

"Why!?"

"Cuz I wanna know!"

"Well …"

"Speak! Where and who?"

"I didn't get her fucking name. But this was in Lansing, at this horrid shithole dive called the Fire Wall."

"What was it like?"

"Tiny, low ceilings, totally dangerous part of town, burnt out buildings, the whole bit."

"When?"

"Like I don't know, 2 or 3 years ago. Summertime. It was sweltering hot in this club and there were maybe like a hundred people there, max. One of them was this girl. I didn't even notice her at first."

"What did she look like?"

"She was okay. No raving beauty or anything. Ordinary, sorta, but she had a pretty nice build and she had these amazing fucking eyes, and we just sorta looked at each other a few times during the gig, and I didn't even think it necessarily meant anything, so I was sorta surprised when she was there afterwards."

"Where was this?"

"Lansing."

"No, I mean, where was she when you saw her after?"

"Oh, just this hallway. We were heading off the stage and I'd noticed that she wasn't in the crowd anymore- I guess I figured she'd left, and there were a few sleezoid hangers-on and the guys were all over them, of course."

"Jim?"

"Fuck ya. Jimmy would fuck anything that walked, in those days. Anything. How he ended up with Katie, I will never know."

"So was this when you were on … were you still on heroin?" I still find it painful to think of it.

"I was sorta dry in this period, from what I recall. One of my few brief dry spells where I was trying to kick and struggling with the methodone. Anyway, so I look and she's there, and I was surprised, a bit, but we sorta exchanged a look, and I think I said hi, or something, and she said hi, and she had this sorta sultry voice, I remember that. We made some brief small talk, I'm sure. She was pretty fucking hot."

"Wearing?"

"Oh, well, a mini-skirt, and a little shirt over it. Blouse, or whatever." He grins. "Legs, she was all legs."

"Heels?"

"Just small sorta sandly-ones."

"Okay."

"So, and we, um the hallway emptied out pretty quick, which sucked, because I knew that meant the guys had taken all the good rooms."

"The good rooms?"

"Ya, like, to go fuck in private."

"Oh, of course. Had you played here before?"

He shakes his head.

"No, never, and never afterwards. The place was a total hole, man. It was a miracle if you didn't get jumped on the way out. Typical of the places we played in that period."

"So what did you do?"

"I don't remember exactly how, but I just remember at some point it was obvious what was going on, and I took her hand, and I don't think we even said anything. She walked behind me and I tried a few doors, and one of them finally opened, and it was just this teeny tiny bathroom."

"A public bathroom?"

"I don't know. It had one toilet and a bare lightbulb overhead, hanging from a fucking wire, that's all I remember."

"Smelly?"

"Not that I recall. I was too wound up."

"Yes, with your mystery girl in tow."

He laughs.

"So anyway, we went inside and y'know, of course, we're immediately on each other. She had her back to the door, and we were kissing and feeling each other up, the whole bit, and I remember she smelled amazing for some reason. Just like, her hair–"

"–Oh! What color?"

"Dark, long and dark, brown eyes. Amazing tanned legs."

"Yes, you mentioned the legs already."

He laughs.

"Well it was … I mean the funny thing was, I'd never been a leg-guy at all. I wasn't really into them necessarily or whatever, but hers were just … fantastic. Long and smooth and shapely as christ and … phew."

I laugh.

"So, I was getting pretty heated, and I turned her around to face the door and I hiked up her skirt a bit and I mean, wow."

"What, her arse?"

"No, her _legs_! Her skirt was still covering her ass, it was just that when I hiked it up, there was that much more of her legs showing, and her thighs were just … mesmerizing! Like velvet smooth, tanned, super-hot."

He sighs and looks off.

"What, is this … getting to you?"

He smiles shyly.

"Maybe. I haven't thought about this in a long time."

I squelch the jealous feeling.

"So now I _really_ have to know what happened."

He takes a drag and exhales.

"She um, I … I was pretty turned on, and she was just, y'know, waiting for me, I mean, she was there for the taking, and I … I just couldn't take my eyes off those beautiful thighs, so I just … I remember reaching for them and stroking them and feeling them all the way around, and her skin was like … just incredibly soft and smooth and warm and I was sorta transfixed, I guess. And then I ran a finger in between … y'know, right up where her leg meets her pussy and …"

He gulps and puts the cig into the ashtray. A quick downward shift of my eyes finds him to be thickening under the sheet. Oh my.

I lay my head on his shoulder and softly caress his chest, and whisper.

"Was she wearing panties?"

He whispers back and shuts his eyes.

"Ya, little things."

"What color?"

"White. They were white."

I kiss his shoulder.

"Did you take them off?" The thought it beginning to get to me, too.

"Not at first. I was too caught up in exploring those fucking thighs."

"Were you hard by this point?"

He swallows.

"Definitely. But I just kept feeling her up, and she sorta stuck her ass out a bit, towards me, as I did."

"Phew. Nice."

"Ya, definite invitation, so I, um, unzipped, y'know, but the funny, fucked up thing was, horned out as I was, I didn't … for some fucked up reason, I didn't wanna fuck her. I just wanted to sort of … use her, like, I don't know … as a prop."

"A visual to beat off to."

"Ya, only one you could reach out and stroke while you were doing it. It was pretty incredible, and very unlike me. Normally I'd be banging away, but … I don't know, she just had this quality about her, the whole thing, that was just … fantastically erotic. Sort of inexplicable."

"Do you think she was … I mean, did you say anything to her?"

"No, not a word, either of us. I think she was just standing there, waiting for me, y'know…"

"To fuck her."

He licks his lips.

"Yes.

"Did you? Did you give her what she wanted?"

"No. I just … I slid her panties down finally, I at least did that, and I remember … she stepped out of them and ah …"

I'm getting hard along with him, lying here on his chest, listening to him and picturing it all. I reach downward and cup his cock through the sheet.

He doesn't stop me. I whisper.

"What happened when she stepped out of them?"

He clears his throat slightly. His voice is far off.

"She ah, the thing was, she only, she only stepped out of them with one leg. They sat around her other ankle the whole time. For some reason that turned me on even more, it sorta drove me nuts, looking down and seeing these rumpled up panties around her heel."

I fondle him and whisper gravel.

"So you were touching yourself?"

"Ya, I was beating off kinda slow, just looking at her, at this amazing fucking specimen, and I remember … shit, this is really …"

I reach underneath the sheet and grasp him softly.

"Oh, Brian."

"Shhh. Keep talking. You remember …?"

"I just remember … she um … I ran my finger in between her legs and she was just _sopping_ fucking wet."

I laugh throatily.

"Did that surprise you?"

"Well … I don't know. I don't remember, I just became totally focused on it, the feeling of this slippery warm stuff on my hand and running my finger back and forth in the slit and she was panting a bit when I did that."

I smile and stroke him firmer.

"I'm sure."

"And I found her clit and I kept flicking my finger back and forth over it and I was timing it with my hand on my cock."

His chest is heaving slightly as my strokes find a moderate rhythm.

"Did she like that?"

"Ya, she was … she seemed to be getting wetter and wetter, and I fingered her I took out my hand and smeared my cock with it …"

"Nature's lubricant."

"Ya and then I could smell her on me, on my hand and … I mean, I was really _really_ fucking excited by that …"

"Like you are now."

He gulps.

"Yes."

"Go on."

"She … the wetness … I was spreading it all over her upper inner thighs and up over her clit and she was really vocal. I don't mean loud, I mean, breathy and excited and … just these incredibly sexy noises she made and … "

His breathing is more laboured.

"So you're standing behind her the whole time doing this double stroke- you, and her?"

He is rock solid in my hand.

"Yes."

"You didn't think of fucking her?"

"No, it's nuts, I know, but … it just felt too good, what we were doing, there was no need, and … I didn't wanna interrupt it. I didn't wanna stop."

"Stroking her clit?"

"Ya."

"Did you come?"

"Ya. Against her thigh. I wiped it off with a tissue."

"What about her?" I stroke him relentlessly.

"She was …" He gulps down air. "She was pretty excited, but I don't think she came."

"Not that she minded."

"Well, who knows? Never saw her again."

"You wish she was here now."

He gulps.

"Standing by the door."

"No."

"Yes you do. I wish she was too. I've never once seen you beat off."

I reach for his hand and plunge it under the sheet, wrapping it around his cock.

"Do it for me, Curt."

His hand begins moving.

I lean up and whisper to him.

"She's standing right over there, in that short skirt and panties, the ones sitting down around her heel …"

He strokes quicker and licks his lips.

"… Sticking her arse out for you, spreading those beautiful soft thighs so you can fuck her."

He strokes yet quicker and pants softly.

"But you don't fuck her, do you? You cock's in your hand the whole time, covered in her juices."

"Mmh," he blurts breathily.

"All slippery and warm, directly out of her cunt."

He gasps. His hand is flying.

"But it's those smooth tanned thighs … soft and spread wide open and aching for you, Curt."

His head pitches back slightly.

"Wet and slippery."

"Fuck!"

I hiss in his year.

"She wants you."

"Uh!" He lunges backward and cries out hoarsely, coming into the sheets.

* * *

><p><strong>BEAUTIFUL AND SWEET<strong>

As always, the spell hits.

He's panting hard, in a near wheeze, fully spent, and yet I have this absolute inability to let go, to release him, so transfixed am I by his orgasm, by his cock in this state, by the stirring I've witnessed, I've _caused_, and so I ignore him as he reaches for me, and go on licking and soothing and kissing him as he softens, swirling and sucking gently, caressing belly and hips and thighs, before finally, reluctantly, surrendering him his body.

Upward I climb, silently laying alongside his sweaty form, feeling, ridiculous as it may be, depressed.

The pinnacle, the high point of my day, is over.

I ponder it, this feeling, as his breathing quiets, this power that he, Curt, and it, the oral act, have over me. The rush I get from it is unlike any other in the world- no drug, at least that I've tried, can compare. I can think only of the famous quote by high wire artist Karl Wallenda:

_'__The wire is life. Everything else is just waiting around.' _

I smile.

I kiss him on the shoulder. Well, why not? Ask.

"Curt?"

"Mmm?"

"What does it feel like?"

His breathing hasn't yet fully calmed.

He gulps.

"Huh?"

"When I do that …. " I raise my head. "tell me what it feels like."

He looks at me.

"Getting blown?"

I smile.

"Yes."

He laughs wearily. I drop my head back to his neck.

"I don't know, Brian. It's … it's a bit hard to describe, isn't it?"

"Give it a try."

"Well … I mean, I think … come on, I mean, _you_ know, Brian. It's pretty … it's pretty fucking overwhelming. Indescribable, really."

I'm having none of it.

"Try." I kiss his neck. "Please. I wanna hear it. I'm really really curious what it's like for you."

He chuckles.

"I think you _know_ what it's like for me …"

His hand snakes out for the end table.

"… isn't it obvious? … fuck, where in hell did I put my smokes?"

I spy them before he does, on top of the bureau on the opposite side of the room.

"Right over there."

He moves to get up, but I beat him to it, rising quickly off the bed, retrieving the pack and ashtray, which I place on the night table next to him. His eyes follow me as I walk back round my side of the bed and resume my position next to him.

"I coulda got em."

I kiss his shoulder and take his arm between both of mine.

"I know." I shrug. "I like doing little things for you … being the wife."

He upends the pack and laughs.

"You are _not_ my fucking wife. Not with _that_ mouth."

I blush.

"Okay then … mistress."

We laugh together.

"Yes, a particularly evil, wicked one."

I grin and nestle into his neck again.

"Tell me, Curt."

He inhales the smoke deeply and exhales, watching it trail upright towards the ceiling.

"Come on, Brian, seriously, what do you wanna know?"

"Describe it. I know what it feels like for me, but I can't really know what it feels like for _you_. I see you writhing about on the mattress, and sweating and cursing, … what's going on when that happens?"

"Okay … um, well … shit, y'know, I mean … I guess I haven't thought about it much. I know I … I know I like it an awful damn lot, and I want it bad, really fucking bad, and it's … incredible and fucking scorching as christ, and … it's sort of like nothing else in the whole world, that feeling, the … just the sensations that rocket through you and the images you see in your mind and … I mean, to be made to squirm around like that, like a fish on your own fucking bed …"

We laugh.

"It … it feels like … I guess … okay, this will sound stupid, but it's like a storm, maybe, a huge storm I'm caught up in- I'm right in the middle of. It feels like I'm being swallowed up and transported to another place, by this … this warm, nourishing, beautiful sort of … pocket that's following me around, wherever I go and however I move."

I smile.

"And then … the sucking … the stuff you do with your mouth, Brian, is just … _insane_ … incredibly intense, super overwhelming, that pressure, and your tongue is all over the fucking place like nobody's business, like it's on fire, like it's in twelve fucking place at once, and … I don't know what to do. It's very _very_ smart, your tongue."

We laugh.

"It seems to know exactly where the fuck and _when_ the fuck to go and there's no fucking hiding from it. It has this built in homing signal and I'm laying there in the middle of it all, this fucking combination, y'know, tornado/tsunami thing, no, more like a reverse tornado with all that suction, and I can barely, barely stand it, I can barely fucking _breathe_, and then you sorta jump up and down with your mouth, you get me coming and going, and I can't escape- there's no hope, really …"

We laugh.

I kiss his shoulder and whisper.

"More."

He smiles.

"Jesus, isn't that enough?"

"No," I smile.

"Okay, well ... It's … it's like this continuous fantastic wet suction/massage. I try and thrust- it's just instinct, and even though I do, I don't need to- you're all over me, and your hand is there, and it's confusing and fantastic and it makes me absolutely fucking crazy, obviously."

I'm beaming into his shoulder, enjoying the shit out of myself as he continues.

"And I'm _so_ ultrasensitive in some spots, _you_ know where they are, especially as I get close, and you're always right there. It's like you're _reading my fucking mind_- you have this innate, sort of demonic sense of timing and touch, and it's just … fucking too much. I want it to go on and on, but at the same time, it's sort of unbearable. I can never last long under such terrible, stressful conditions."

He grins, and takes a drag off his cig.

"My fantasy is that we go two hours."

He laughs, smoke spewing from his mouth in a great burst. I continue.

"I know- ridiculous, but it's just an illustration of what it means to me. It's like the centerpiece of my life."

He laughs again. I kiss his neck and continue.

"Oh Curt, I'm almost not kidding. I want you to be happy, I wanna _make_ you happy- it's all I think about, and when I hear the sounds you make when I've got you in my mouth- there's nothing else like it in the entire world; there really isn't- no other _moment_ like it- when I can _feel_ your bloody heartbeat inside your cock! A part of you _inside_ me, in a place as sensitive as my _mouth_, for taste, and texture and sensation, and that part of you is swollen solid with your own blood and pounding away to the point where I can actually _feel_ it? Incredible! No wonder I'm an addict!"

We laugh.

"And then my mouth gets tighter because you're getting fatter, and I look up and there you are in agony, sweating and cursing … I mean, jesus fucking _christ_. …"

We laugh again.

"Sorry. I've gotten carried away. Continue. Tell me what it's like to come- the buildup, just before, and then when you come."

He laughs and flicks the ashes into the ashtray.

"Shit, you don't want much, do you?"

I hold his arm close to me and lean further into his body.

He clears his throat.

"Okay, well … the buildup and all that. I would say … well, it's just an intensifying of what is already very very intense. It builds, and usually you're bobbing away in my lap, which, y'know, is an amazing fucking sight, shall we say - the visuals I haven't even fucking _mentioned_- the incredible turn on of seeing you down on your knees, and your lips spread around my cock? I mean, great Christ! And your cheeks going hollow … and then when you look up at me and our eyes lock?"

I raise a hand to his chest and shimmy closer.

"Yes!"

"Phew! I mean, _really_, is there a more highly charged, more intimate moment in the history of the whole goddam _world _?"

"Oh my god, I can't believe it- I feel exactly the same way! It's incomparable, that moment, both for erotic reasons–"

"–Yes."

"–And for just that moment when you look into another person's soul."

"You peer down into it, like. Just about literally."

"Yes.

"The things I can read in your eyes …"

"Fuck, yes. We're scanning each other's _brains_."

We laugh.

"It's just intensely, insanely intimate. That unspoken moment. Phew. Powerful. And I really really like putting my hands up into your hair."

I squeeze him harder.

"_Yes!"_

"That close connection thing at that moment feels especially amazing. And as I get nearer, there is a point when I can no longer hold my hands up there … either because you're moving too fucking fast, or you're moving too fucking _slow_."

We burst out laughing.

"The worst, and also the best, is when you're doing it like you're pumped up on speed, and then right when I'm 15 seconds away, you slow down dead and drag and _drag_ it out. That's absolutely like sweet _torture_, man."

I grin wickedly.

"I can't help myself, when I'm in that state- when I know it's about to be over, and I am hit with this wave- I feel despondent that it's coming to an end, and so I just slow up and milk you for all you're worth."

"You're such a dirty boy," he laughs.

"I _need_ to hear the sounds you make. I _need_ to feel you squirming and … to feel your agony at that moment, bad as that sounds."

He nods and laughs.

"Agony, yes."

"I absolutely can't wait to bring you there. I get so excited knowing I'm bringing you off, and knowing all teasings and slowups are overwith."

"Praise jesus."

We laugh.

"And so, I just go full speed ahead."

"Ya, to the point of eruption."

"Just before, though, what about just before?"

He takes a drag and exhales.

"Well, here's a secret. I know I'm not supposed to feel this way, but sometimes just before is almost better than orgasm."

My hand hits his chest.

"Hallejulah! For ME TOO!"

We both burst out.

"Why have we never discussed this before?!"

"I don't know, baby, but this is so fucking cool, isn't it? I mean, not to take away from the supreme gift of orgasm, but I guess I sort of thought I was the only one in the world- the only guy, anyway. Angela used to tell me that just before was her favorite thing and at the time I couldn't understand it."

"See, I've never been close enough to anyone to discuss these things before."

He takes my hand.

"We are lucky, Demon."

"We are."

I lean up for a kiss.

"Okay, now orgasm. _Blowjob_ orgasm."

He sighs.

"Eruption is the only word, I think. Explosion. Just again, an intensifying of what are already incredibly intense feelings- like, I think the most intense you can possibly feel. I'm at the point where I can't look at you anymore, which is half the turn on. My eyes are sealed shut usually, and I'm just trying to hang on and weather the storm, trying not to _die_ from how fucking good it feels."

We laugh.

"My cock's rock solid, and the tip is swollen out fat, and your lips are wet and flexible and stretchy and silky smooth and they do all these _amazing_ fucking things you wouldn't think they were capable of …"

We laugh.

"And your tongue just rubs and rubs and rubs, exactly at the spots where I can least bear it, and at some point I feel this tingling start from below. It seems to center in my lower back, sometimes, and then this intense, intense rush of sensations suddenly shoot through me, the first few seconds it's like a slow moving fucking lightning bolt, my cock twitches and my balls ache and I guess I just … fucking _explode_. I'm always afraid I'm gonna scream like an idiot."

We laugh. I kiss his pectoral. He looks at me.

"Am I loud, usually?"

I finger his nipple and lay my head back, smiling.

"I wouldn't say you scream, but with oral you're definitely louder than with anything else."

He grins with me.

"No surprise there. What do I do though?"

"Your voice gets really hoarse, and you sort of shout. It's this rough, gutteral sound, lovely, masculine sound, and your neck pitches straight backward, of course."

He nods.

"Always. To me that's like the body's last second desperate attempt to _manage_ what it's going through- it sends it all up to the neck and the neck just gives the fuck up."

We giggle. I continue.

"And you shake a bit. I can always feel these like mini quakes, these mini aftershocks rippling through you."

"Ya, I don't have any control. I'm completely in your hands. It's pretty fucking amazing, Brian, when you think about it. Pretty _fucking_ incredible. You aren't more naked or vulnerable at any point in your life, other than when you're born, maybe, your insides are exposed and raw, and there is someone there holding you right through it."

I feel a surge of emotion. I lean up and kiss him.

"I feel guilty sometimes, can you believe it? For wanting to go down on you so much- every day I think of it. I wonder sometimes what's wrong with me, and here you've made it into something beautiful and sweet."


	63. Tidbit 3

**A/n: Here's a weird little one-off (also unfinished) that doesn't really belong anywhere, but I like it ...**

* * *

><p><strong>INSECT<strong>

I have at some point in this night, the most vivid and peculiar dream I've ever had; like an acid trip.

I am myself, fully formed, but tiny, the size of an insect; extremely small, and walking …

_... walking_ over Curt's body as he lays in bed, upright, asleep.

It's not normal for me to be tiny- in the dream I have no idea how I got this way, but I'm not bothered about it- I don't try and figure it out. I simply see it as an opportunity to explore him in ways I never could.

I'm standing on his forehead, for instance.

He's got his head turned at an angle into the pillow and so there aren't many flat planes; he's all angles. I look round, quoting Scarlett to myself: _where shall I go? What shall I do?_

I look up. Hair. Thick, luscious; that healthy irresistible sheen that just calls to you. It's been calling to me for six months now.

I walk across, crouch down for leverage, for balance, and carefully reach out, stretching my arms toward his bangs. They are soft and silky as can be, and seem to me to be yards long, one hundred times longer than the length of my body, and it almost makes me dizzy, looking down into the top of his head, a dense forest into which I could so ... effortlessly ... _fall. _To be lost forever. Not at all an unpleasant fate.

Really, I could stay right here and be perfectly content to stroke and pet this gorgeous mane, each strand the circumference of a small, pliable, fertile young sapling, but there is so much more, beyond this, to investigate. And I fear that at any moment, I will pop back into the real world and become normal again, and so I must ...

I turn and spy his left eyebrow in the distance, which is a slight uphill walk for me, and for fear of falling, I get down on hands and knees and crawl up to meet it, finding it eerie, along the way, to look down into individual pores, which, to my surprise, appear healthy and clean; somehow I'd pictured them clogged with the dirt of the world he's walked in, with everything he's seen.

At his eyebrow when I reach it, I'm not quite sure what to do. Each hair is laying down, swept away from the center in a perfect angular arc and I note with interest the mix of colors, from medium sand to darker honey to hints of white blonde; a so very pleasing concoction. I reach out, lay a hand down, and stroke. Expecting it to be coarse, I'm pleased to find that while it's not extremely soft, it's terribly inviting, like a bed of straw in a sweet smelling farm, and so I carefully turn and then lay myself down in it. Perfect! Akin to three king sized beds. I luxuriate in it, hugging myself and rolling my wee form back and forth in delight.

Curt. Oh Curt. I do love you, my darling, I do.

Finally I sit, press my hands behind me, into the hay, and push myself upright to stand, with some effort- I feel a bit wobbly, having to constantly rebalance myself on this uneven surface.

I look to my left, and lord, I'm on the edge of the deep cliff, overlooking … his eyesocket! A move slightly to the left, and I'll fall down into his ear, bounce off the lobe, and be gone forever.

Carefully, once again, I get down on hands and knees, moving towards the middle, and begin the crawl down the bridge of his nose, heading for those lips somewhere south. It is here that I do find a bit of dirt and bigger, less immaculate pores, which I'm careful to crawl between, not wanting to get my foot stuck, or fall down into. Suddenly without warning … I slip on the bit of oil in his skin and slide sideways into the well of his socket.

I mean, _wow_. Phew! I get up, dust myself off and … am _standing _on his fucking eyelid! It's all so very bizarre! I look down. Yes, there beneath my feet, below this incredibly soft and supple flesh, is his _eyeball_ … with just this thin, delicate flap of skin separating us! How can it be?!

Then I notice it- a tiny reverberating quake. He must be dreaming, and so I walk gingerly, carefully crawling along the edge by his lashes, aiming for the safe territory of his temple, fearing the whole while that he will become aware of a tiny tickle and awaken. I mean, really; how many times is a man in a position to be hurled into the air by a blinking human lid?

I reach the edge quickly and hop off. I look back. Next to me is the giant sweeping curve of his lashes- slightly darker in color than his brows, and seemingly ten feet in the air above me, arcing at a perfect angle. I reach out and grasp a smaller one at the corner, it's irresistible, holding it between both outstretched arms … _pulling_, _pulling_ … with all my might to flip it back, but it won't do. Dammit, I just want to see his eyeball up close. When will I ever have a chance quite like this again?

I try again, bending my body forward, calling on the strength in my legs, gritting teeth and groaning with the effort … until it finally becomes unstuck and then it's … easy, or well, easier- it still weighs an absolute ton, this flap of skin, and I'm hoping to god I don't pull out a lash and go sailing in the air, riding it like a broomstick.

Pull … pull, and then … there it is, huge, white, wet, and shiny.

My dear god.

For all my effort, it _is_ rather unnerving. I'd heard as a kid that your eyes rotate back into your skull when you sleep, and the idea has bothered me ever since. Who knew one day I'd find up close proof of this.

I let go of the flap and jump out of the way, lest it carry me with it, crushing my body against the orb.

He would then awaken from the feeling of irritation in his eye, from some foreign object, he is sure, and immediately raise a fist to rub, and when that doesn't work, douse it in the cold water from the sink, annoyed and cursing that he can't get this damned, flesh colored _thing_ out of his eye, rubbing, rubbing, oblivious to my screams and cries, until I am rotated backward behind the orb, and find myself _inside of his brain cavity_ … but then, that's a whole 'nother story.

Where next? I look south, and there beneath me, seemingly one mile long, I spy his left sideburn. Lovely, lovely thing that it is; can't recall if I've ever told him, but since he won't grow a beard no matter how I beg, it has had to suffice, and it does frame his face rather handsomely.

I proceed, heading down the precarious hill diagonally, carefully moving towards it. The hairs when I reach them are stiff and taut, wiry, like the strings of a cello. I pluck at one, and it bounces back and knocks me on my arse. Idiot! It's _not_ a bloody cello! I stand, dust myself off again, and quite simply walk forward, at first contentedly standing in the prickly sideways forest, then weaving my may through and between, like a maze, like an obstacle course. It's quite a lot of fun, I find, to pick up speed and work myself into a trotting tizzy, giggling away at my new little game.

Suddenly I come to a skidding halt, however, as the sky is visible- I am out of the forest, and into a territory of sharp landmines- the stubble down his jaw. Ouch! When did he last shave, I wonder? Yesterday ? Day before?

I walk through this minefield that is his lower face- carefully wending my way between and around the lovely blonde spikes, which previous to this, had posed no threat to me outside of stubble rash. I stop, hold my hand over my eyes and peer round. Is there really no other path to his neck and thus to the rest of him, than this?

I can see there isn't, short of climbing my way in and around his ear, which poses it's own precarious threats with it's curves and wells and the deep cavity that is his eardrum, _and_ I would still end at his prickly neck. Sigh. I proceed, oftentimes having no clear path at all, no stubble-free region within view, proof that he _could_ grow a beard of full, rich, fantastic quality, but sigh, listen to me he will not.

I turn myself sideways and shimmy forward at one point, between two spikes, and manage to lose my balance and fall on my backside, directly onto a shorter hair …

_Eeeaaaaahhhhh_! I howl at the top of my miniscule lungs, heard by no one.

Yes, I _do_ understand the irony of being poked in the bottom by Curt, _okay_?! Shall we move on?

Now, to the edge of his jaw, and here is the ski jump downward slope, a minefield as far as the eye can see. What about a running start, jumping in the air, flying off and landing on his nice smooth chest?

Running start? Please explain how one does such a thing in a field full of pointed upturned needles?

Sigh. What then? Okay, just have to take it slow and measured, grasping each individual stubble bit as I pass it, hooking my arms round them and swinging myself slightly forward, like a monkey in the forest, holding on for dear life as his neck _is_ a long way down.

Eventually though, I do make it, unharmed, past the shaving point, and from here it's a breeze. I'm on a flatter plane, with only the ridge of his lovely collar bone ahead, like a wave in the ocean, which I indeed get up a running start for, and then quite giddily _fling_ myself over, like some olympic athlete, which I find out quickly I am not, as I do an unintentional flip in the air and then land hard and firm on my arse, which, yes, already does smart quite enough, thank you.


	64. Tidbit 4

**A/n: Hey guys, thanks for the really nice reviews! Sorry I hadn't seen them before I whined and asked for them - hadn't realized they were there! Anyway, thank you! Means a lot to me! Here are some more random UNfinished honeymoon bits before I get to the boys departure/arrival to London. Hope you enjoy!**

**PS - are you finding the unfinished nature of these frustrating? **

* * *

><p><strong>BROOM CLOSET<strong>

We shut the closet door and there's the immediate shock of total and complete darkness. It's eerie, mildly disorienting and a bit claustrophobic, opening and closing your eyes, and there being no difference whatsoever. But it's also quite thrilling to experience each other in a completely new and different way, for you are now relying solely and exclusively on scent and touch and sound, on the tactile exploration of the curves and bumps and angles of the body, the shape and form of him, and the discovery of lovely, subtle things, such as the differences in the temperature and texture and density of the skin over say, the solar plexus versus the small of the back versus the upper, inner thigh; things I'm embarrassed to admit I'd scarcely noticed before. (Here I am thinking I know him absolutely inside and out- I've certainly gone over every square centimeter, and this far along, I'm still discovering new things. Pity.)

That being said, in our eagerness and excitement it's certainly a bit clumsy; we mis-time and misjudge kisses, ie where the other's lips are and at what precise moment, to the point where he nearly frenches my eyelid, and I his nose; we bump hands and foreheads and elbows, against each other, against the walls, for this is the smallest closet in the house by far; the wall being immediately behind Curt, the door maybe a foot behind me, with less than a foot clearance to either side of us.

Further to the feeling of excitement and naughtiness, to the thrill of the two of us being pent up in this tiny space, add the sense, the feeling that perhaps we're hiding, that we're running the risk, at any moment, of discovery. It can't help, then, but be quick and hungry and wildly passionate, can it? We can't help but grope and pant and kiss each other in this messy, furious way, all the way through the competitive erotic cycle of darting and sucking and licking and tongue play, lips mashing together, spreading, turning slightly, and landing again in that splendid game of 'whose mouth can dominate whose'.

The decision to start out fully clothed adds yet another layer to the level of excitement- each of us in buttoned up shirts tucked into trousers, and even knickers- something that took a huge amount of coaxing on my part, as Curt basically never wears them. It is just wonderfully scrumptious and appetizing, the delay, however brief, the small but potent buildup before you can touch actual flesh, during which you fondle and caress, running hands over the thin, soft cotton covering his thighs, over the wide leather belt he wears, up each individual shirt-button to pinch and rub and bite a nipple or two, which then poke pleasingly through the material.

But below, of course, is where you focus, what you grind your hips towards, where your fingers inquire, where the heel of your hand then turns and presses inward, moving softly, pointedly, from bottom to top, bottom to top, agitating the swelling which then entices and seduces you further, which is then your guide, the beacon in the storm. It is here where you compel and are compelled to breathe harder, to become lost in the other's scent, in the other's muttered filth, where the harshest of phrases are whispered.

There comes the point of course, where enough is enough, and you must fumble, in the pitch black, to determine just exactly where it is that the bloody belt slips through to the other side, which is the Holy Gateway through which you must pass to be granted permission to then engage in the deliriously wonderful, hand-shaking, rapturously exciting task of Dislodging the Top Button.

Before _this_ though, I take hold of said belt, once finally loosened and disengaged from the buckle, and yank forcefully on it, ripping it from round his waist so quickly that it makes a near-whistling sound.

Curt whoops softly, in surprise, and laugh-whispers.

"Careful there, Demon."

I shake my head, though he can't see. He doesn't quite understand the state I'm in.

"No," I hiss, as I pull out the last of the belt and toss it to the floor. "Careful is not what I'm going to be. I'm gonna take this and bind you up so tight you can't breathe, do you understand? So you won't say a single bloody word, so you won't dare fucking get in the way of my mouth."

"Christ," he moans, and grabs my whole head for a deep, almost violent kiss as I pull quickly at the shirt tails, dragging them up and out, bit by bit before ripping the whole thing open and yanking it completely from his body- buttons flying hence.

Meanwhile he gropes impatiently for my zipper but I push him bodily away and grasp for his hands, raising them and holding them on either side of his head, against the wall.

"No," I whisper as we pant into each other's faces. "You're the most insanely erotic being I've ever known," I lick at the stubble on his jaw, "you torment me every single second of every single day, Curt. And now I'm gonna make you pay."

I don't so much see or hear, as sense a gulp.

I drop his hands and pull forcefully on the Top Button, which, with an audible 'pop', breaks free, then lazily finger the zipper clip, just to make him especially nuts, before lowering it so slow that you can hear each individual piece of the metal, one by one, disengaging, all of which causes a directly proportional elevation in his breathing to the point of genuine, flustered panting.

Oh god, oh god, it will drive me mad, driving him mad.

"Fuck me, Brian," he pleads under his breath, kissing and sucking and licking at my lips, "fuck me. Fuck me hard."

My eyes nearly roll back in my head, so intoxicating, so bewitching is his voice in this state.

"No," I answer again, as I insert my hand into his trousers. The swelling is immediately there, weighty, warm, undeniable inside these special unders I've bought him, as a wedding gift to myself- white, silky soft, thin, and very, very snug, though anything would be, in his condition.

I gently caress and cup the sac, before moving upward to explore the beautiful form of his cock, which is standing straight upright, and, as my fingers journey northward, I find, poking out of the top.

Oh god, I can barely stand it- how can I hold off? How can I keep myself from diving on him?

As I fondle below, with my free hand I run a finger softly round and round and round the exposed tip. His skin is incredibly supple here, warm, stretched tight, and extraordinarily sensitive, so much so that the sensation is causing mini-quakes to ripple through him. Quickly he becomes overly agitated and tense, exhaling and muttering curses and threats under his breath, and I'm suddenly very frustrated with the darkness, for more than anything at this moment, I want to see him, both his face, and his cock, I want to see the particular hue they've each blossomed into, due to my attentions.

But mostly ... what I want is something else.

I pull my hands away and turn them to press down on the waistband of his trousers, slipping them to his knees while being careful to leave the unders in place, before resuming this intensely slow erotic exploration. The soft pad of my thumb relentlessly traces an upward path along the underside before I turn my hand around and allow various knuckles to stimulate it further- his favorites, I immediately learn, being those below the fingers, on the back of the hand. This sensation is a firmer, more potent, and so I alternate it with the soft ring that the webbing between thumb and hand make, pushing and pushing upward, pressing his cock into his stomach and causing him to gasp and curse and gulp down buckets of air.

Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I loop a finger into either side of the waistband and lean into his neck as I pull downward, very, very slowly.

"I'm gonna taste your cock," I whisper.

He moans softly.

Down, ever so slowly I inch the material, which turns inside out as it slides over the swelling.

"I'm gonna take you into my mouth," I stop mid-way and reach for him as I speak directly into his face. Illustrating my words, I run a fingertip along the edge of the ridge, and just beneath. "Right here, I'm gonna make tight, wet circles with my tongue," circling with my finger as I speak, "round ... and round ... and round ...", he pants and swears excitedly, "licking and sucking ... and licking and sucking ... until you spew all over me."

In an instant I'm shoved back into the door and mauled- hands and mouth delirious, groped and frenched with a passion and fierceness that leaves me bruised and dizzy.

It's one of the top ten most wonderful moments of my life.

He's clearly overheated; I've misjudged and pushed it a bit too far.

I shove back against him. For a brief few seconds, we stand apart, not touching, panting openly, and with no visual cues, unsure of what the other may do. It is here that I drop hard to my knees.

His unders are still partially in place, half way over the bulge. I slide them all the way down.

Oh god, there is this moment, this staggeringly beautiful moment, when he's naked before me, laid bare, never more vulnerable- exposed, prone, placing himself, open and defenseless, into my care. I can't help it; there is something just so exceptionally moving and precious about this, to me. For all my dirty talk, a part of me just wants to stand and hold him.

Oh, and then, god, there are those hands, those sweet, gentle hands, slid so tenderly, so lovingly into my hair, I mean, it's all I can do to stop myself from swooning like an arse, "oh Curt, that's so _beautiful_!"

The scent of him, though, so close, the knowledge that his cock hovers, waiting ... I mean ... I do get past my romantic notions fairly quick.

I lean up, hands on his hips and dip a pointed tongue into his navel, something that I know he, like me, finds disarming and strangely sensual- it sends little erotic shivers directly to his cock, which, oh god, oh fucking christ, is right next to my chin.

I somehow manage to ignore it, digging and licking at his navel, until he makes that peculiar sound, the one I'm waiting for- a small sort of tickled breathy hiccup. God I love it. I love that I know him this well.

His cock though, god his cock. Please allow me, heavenly father, to ignore the spellbinding appendage, which taunts me so, just a few moments longer.

Kiss. I kiss his belly, tracing a line downward, downward, until, oh sweet joy, I hit hair. It is here that I stretch my tongue into a point, and slide it, making a zig-zag pattern back and forth through the curls.

Jesus, it drives him nuts.

He gasps and pants excitedly and pitches about even as I hold him in place and, right in the middle of it all, as I'm tracing my way back up again, I surprise him with an immediate downward bob, taking the swollen tip fully into my mouth.

God, the sound he emits will, _will_ make me insane. He cries out, yes he does, that first second, telling me I'd surprised him for sure, which, I mean, the thought of just that one thing is so bloody lovely, but to describe it, to put it into words ... it is like a soft gush, a burst of air, very brief, it is, joyous, certainly blissful, but also one of torment, as if it's something he'd been waiting for all his entire life that has finally arrived, and proven so much much more intense than he'd remembered as to border on unbearable. This is all that first split second, mind you. What follows is even better.

As I envelop him, as I take him inward, lay him gently on the wet bed of my tongue and apply pressure, the sound in the tiny room actually quiets. It's the sound of all of his focus and concentration, every iota, for there is nothing, and no one else in the world to him right now, only, just about literally, my mouth, and his cock. His entire being, every nerve, every cell in his body, every tiny microscopic fiber behind his eyes is now at one, completely, with, specifically, the tip, to which I do make love, I do stimulate, continuously, lovingly, generously.

I so want and treasure these moments for him, where he is permitted, like an infant, to be entirely egocentric; where I am permitted, privileged, in turn to give freely, to nurse and nurture, to please, to bring pleasure and contentment and solace. I want for him a feeling of warmth, of total well being, leaving him spent, satisfied, completely at peace. I want, every day, to provide for him this beautiful safe cocoon, this velvet goldmine, where he can hide from the world, where he can heal from the pain of his past.

But, okay ... the _sounds_, I was discussing the sounds ... It's reverberation, really, that first note out of him after the initial surprise-shock. An open-mouthed hum, if there could be such a thing, a trembling of the larynx that I swear I can feel deep in his flesh, in his back, in the skin of his bottom that I'm clutching.

Yes, it's here that I grab onto, for I want for him my mouth and my mouth only, no distraction- it slows him and it just feels so natural this way, to bob my head and cling to the anchor that his body provides. It's cheating otherwise, and he doesn't exactly complain. I luxuriate, I do, in every corner, crevice, in the beautiful contradiction, the mystery of such steely firmness encased in soft, supple, supersensitive flesh.

I pull backward slowly, tightening the ring my lips make as my tongue circles and swirls, then bob forward quickly, plunging him deep, only to pull away again, slow and oh so tight.

* * *

><p><strong>SECOND TIME re-do<strong>

When I came to, I am vaguely aware of having been pushed with force onto the bed. I land with a bounce and feel an immediate yanking at the bottom of my trousers. I raise up onto my elbows and lifted my hips to aid him. He then quickly rifles through the nighttable.

"Second drawer", I whisper shakily.

He rips it open and yanks out the bottle, then looks at me with surprise and confusion.

"It's warm".

"Heated drawer ... specially ... designed", I hear myself mutter, still lost in the fog.

I crack open an eye to see him crawling up the bed, between my legs. Incredibly, I am so completely spent I feel like I can't take any more.

"Pre-heated lube!" He laughed throatily, and leans down into my neck, whispering. "You spoiled motherfucking princess."

I pushed back at him, annoyed.

He sits up. "What?"

I reached out and unclip the Buckle, dropping it to the floor, then yanked down his zipper, no small feat considering the snugness of his trousers, and the prominent lump thereunder. He begins to undo the top button but I bat his hand away. He looks at me.

"You're going to fuck me with these on."

He grins slowly, wickedly.

"Okay".

* * *

><p><strong>TIE UP<strong>

"OH !" I shout, neck snapping backward.

Eyes batting slowly, I'm panting like a bloody freaking racehorse, an _old_ racehorse who's been put under terrible strain; made to run round the track a few dozen times too many. He meanwhile, is the sprightly young colt, bouncing straight upright off his knees and grinning that satisfied/proud/turned on crooked way that he does, eyes sparkling; devilish.

In the corner of his mouth I spot a bit of white. I raise my hand but he gets there first and wipes it away w/the back of his, grinning away the whole time- was is that phrase? Like the cat that ate the canary.

His voice is worn and breathy, with twice the normal gravel.

"You uh, really sorta _dug_ that, huh Demon?"

Little bastard. The glint won't be doused, it's reflecting what's inside of him at this moment: a boyish mischievousness, a terribly playful, self satisfied mood that is at once adorable and brain spinningly sexy.

"No," I blurt between pants, opening and closing my left hand, which had been clenched so tight it went near numb. "It was quite awful. Please, don't ever do it again."

He laughs. "Shit, Demon, I'll suck your dick whenever and wherever and _how_ever I want." He reaches for me. "Understand?"

A tingle tickles my spine. Even in play, just the hint of _top_ that such single-word questions suggests makes me especially slightly weak.

He grins and kisses me quick. He whispers.

"Waddayu gonna do about it?"

"Well ..." I clear my throat, "... if you put it _that_ way ..." I grin back at him, "I might just have to return the favor ... once in a great while."

I take his hand and switch places, turning him as I'd been standing, with his back to the wall. I press against his shoulders, pinning him gently, and kiss him slowly. He's giggly at first, then as I grasp his half hardness, stroking it between us, he quiets.

He's warm to the touch, veiny, beefy in my hand, possessing of a certain delectable weight and form which grows by the second.

Jesus christ knows I could do this every day of my life.

In my mind, however, there is a picture which has been all over the inside of my eyelids for days on end. It was in fact the image that I just now exploded over: Curt, quite simply, bound; me, slowly bringing him off, and in turn, helping him realize this most complicated, difficult and baggage-laden of fantasies. He has no idea how much I want to do this, in fact, I think he still thinks I don't know. Of course, I could be wrong, I could have misinterpreted him completely, but I'm hoping to christ not.

Here's the dilemma. Asking him outright, spelling it out, here on our honeymoon, will surely spoil it, no? But leaping on him with a set of women's thigh highs might, if I'm wrong, embarrass and possibly upset and/or totally turn him off or maybe even anger him- the last bloody thing I want, especially in the open, receptive and playful mood he's in.

Okay, put it off, then? Again? Or ... bloody well jump on him, while he's giggly and aroused?

Um ... Yes. The latter, please.

Here I am the whole time pondering things while absently jerking him off, when I could be doing any manner of one hundred other more delicious things ... though, really it _is_ wonderful, cupping and stroking and caressing ... a gift, always, that stiffness, that quickening breath.

Ahem. Okay! So ... take the plunge ...?

I'm nervous though, christ knows, and my voice shakes when I finally push the words out..

"Curt?"

His eyes open.

"Mm?"

I raise a gentle finger to his lids, shutting them softly.

"Stand right there, okay? Just for a minute. Don't move. Don't look."

I step away. I watch him.

"Okay?"

His face splits into a delighted grin.

"Okay, but what are you gonna do?" he asks, sweetly, like a boy who absolutely adores surprises.

I begin moving towards the bureau.

"Just stay where you are."

Bloody rebellious thing has to turn his head and open his eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"I said don't look!"

He giggles and shuts them, laying his head back against the wall again.

"Okay. What're you doing, though?"

I crouch and open the bottom drawer, pull out the pair, and hold it behind me. My hands are shaking. I stand and approach, nervous out of my mind, but determined to sound assured and confident.

"None of your bloody business."

He laughs with delight, and with eyes softly closed, is particularly beautiful as he does.

"Okay, but I have the feeling it might involve my dick, and my dick is _definitely_ my business."

I hover close to his neck, whispering, eager for a taste.

"I'm the businessman here, remember?" I lick the skin below his jaw. "You're the artist," I move upward, kissing his chin ... "It's time you learned that lesson ... wouldn't you say?"

I whisper directly into his lips.

"Now keep your eyes shut another minute and we'll get down to some business ... understand?"

He attempts to grab me with both hands but I resist, pushing against him a little too roughly, with a single open palm against his chest. His eyes pop open in surprise. Before I have time to hide it, he spies the material.

"What the fuck is that?" he inquires, laughing, reaching for it as I swing my hand behind me. "Is that lace? Brian, do you have a girls' _panty_ in your hand?"

"_No,_" I snap, annoyed, embarrassed. Christ, so much for seduction. I stammer all over the place, face turning purple. "It's just something, something I've wanted to ... to ... try on you-"

"-I"m not wearin' women's panties!" He shrieks, giggling, "Glam rock gone _too far_!"

"It's not panties!" I blurt, "It's stockings!"

"Well I'm sure as fuck not wearin' those either! Neither are you!"

"They aren't for wearing! They're for ..." How do I put this, exactly? I sigh. I look down at them in my hand, totally deflated. "Um ... anyway ... forget it."

"Aww, come on, Demon, I didn't mean to-"

I begin walking towards the bureau, totally deflated.

He follows, voice soft..

"-Tell me; come on, now I'm curious."

I'm too ... flustered, feeling like an ass, anything but sexy.

"It's just ... it was ..."

He hovers close. Christ, he smells good. He whispers.

"Was it for ... were you gonna wrap it around my dick, like, or something?"

My face flushes terribly. I look at the material. "No."

"What then?"

He moves closer. I raise my head. He's right in my face, with that steamy mist in his eyes.

"I mean ... Do you wanna maybe ... show me?"

The phrase Michael told him pops into my head: 'good writers don't tell, they _show_.'

Our lips meet. A surge shoots through me and the kiss quickly intensifies.

"Show me, Brian," he mutters breathily.

Backward I press him, firmly, into the wall.

* * *

><p><strong>COAX<strong>

"Sorry," he breathes into my neck, hand caressing my backside. "It's your fault, though."

I turn my head slightly.

"My fault my bottom is bruised?"

He whispers.

"Yes. Without question ... young man."

Despite my exhaustion, I feel myself twitch. There is something about his gravel-throated, middle of the night delivery of such a delicious phrase that hits all my switches, and he knows it.

"H-How is it my fault?"

He squirms softly behind me, slowly sliding his hard-on upright between my cheeks, as he answers.

"It's this ass, Brian. It just absolutely _begs_ to be taken."

His free hand snakes round to my front.

"_Begs_ to be fucked. Always." He kisses my ear. "Doesn't it?"

A small peep escapes my lips. A part of me wants to pass out from being rubbed and writhed against by this warm uber-sensual being climbing up my backside. The rest of me is so sore, achy and flat out exhausted, after yet another round of a fierce pummeling followed by a mere 40 minutes' sleep, that I lay a hand over his and bring it back to my hip.

"I'm sorry, my love. I can barely keep my eyes open." He licks my earlobe, seeming not to be listening. "It's really smarting. I think it's literally bruised."

He kisses and strokes my chest.

"Sorry, my baby. I was pretty rough with you."

A surge of guilt goes through me. Since when is rough and aggressive something to apologize for?

"Well ..." I smile, "I didn't exactly mind." Screaming with delirium, in fact, was I.

He laughs softly.

"No, you didn't."

"But I really need to rest it for a bit, Curt. Plus I'm just so bloody tired, Curt. I don't think I could hold myself upright, right now."

He continues the sensual squirm/writhe, stroking along the crack with his cock.

"You don't have to, I can do you right like you are, right now." He licks my neck. "Sideways spoon."

I gulp. We've never done it that way and for that reason, I'm excited by it, but ...

"I'm sorry, I'm just too bloody exhausted and sore."

"You're just AFO, that's all."

I turn my head slightly.

"AFO?"

He giggles breathily.

"AFO: All Fucked Out. An acute condition, but easily curable, young man."

Oh, oh god. I feel my resolve weakening by the second.

"I see."

"AFO is in fact a highly prized, highly sought after condition that few people are fortunate enough to experience on a regular basis. We're the lucky ones. Everyone should strive for it at least once or twice a night."

He pauses and kisses my neck.

"I'll go slow, Brian." He reaches toward my cock. I block his hand. I can't believe I'm actually telling him no, never in a million years would I have imagined it ...

He slides the rebellious hand back behind me, over my cheeks.

"I'll be gentle, my baby, I promise."

Christ, his cock is so stiff and swollen, I can feel it pulsing against me. It's turning him on even more, this coaxing, this seduction, as it is me. I say nothing, suddenly hungry to hear more from that mouth.

He rubs the side of his face into my ear.

"I'm so fucking hard right now, can you feel it? So _fucking_ turned on, I don't care how many times we've fucked. All I want is this ass. I wanna pummel it so _fucking_ bad. I wanna make you scream. I wanna make you say yes."

I gulp and begin writhing with him, against him.

"Then I wanna make you sorry you said yes. You won't be able to walk, tomorrow. You won't be able to walk for weeks."

I'm gasping. I've brought his hand to my cock and am sliding it up and down.

"More," I hiss. "What else? Tell me more."

"Deep. I wanna cram my cock so hard and so fucking deep, Brian. Pin you down and hold you in place and fuck you so _fucking_ hard and rough and it hurts, and you don't care. You love it. You want it. You wouldn't dream of saying no. You wouldn't dream of fighting me, but you do, because you like it, don't you?"

"Yes," I whimper.

"You crave that feeling of being held down by me, don't you?"

"_Yes_," I plead.

"It turns you on like nothing else. You dream about it, all day with that perverted little mind of yours. You want me to be rough with you. You _want_ it to hurt."

I blush- it's true. There is a certain delicious naughtiness to a bit of pain, that I don't quite understand, but I know I crave.

"You want so badly to struggle beneath me. You want me to lay on your wrists til your hands go numb."

God, he knows me well.

"You want me to talk dirty to you. You want me to say shit like _fuck_ and _cunt_ and _dick_ and _cock_ and _come _all night. It turns you on."

"You want me to tell you off and order you around."

"Sub is in your _veins_, isn't it, Brian?"


	65. Tidbit 5

**A/n: Okay, a couple more unfinished bits - again, do you guys find this frustrating? Then I'm heading out on vacation for a week, so will post the story about the boys' return to London then. **

* * *

><p><strong>CORNER<strong>

I'm standing naked in the corner. He's shirtless, wearing those brown leather trousers with, of course, nothing underneath.

He's excited and agitated, having just held my hands between us and bound them for the very first time, wrapping and wrapping them with the long wide strips of material, round and round and then figure 8-ing them together as he looked into my eyes and kissed me slow, whispering into my face that delicate, delicious mix of extraordinarily bad language and erotic promises combined with dashes of romance.

He's slowly stroking me now, quizzing me ... here as I float in and out of delirium and consciousness.

"Tell me what you like," he whispers in my face.

All I can feel is the soft, slow motion of his hand, rising and falling, rising and falling.

My eyes try to open, but I can only crack them part way.

"Hmm? ..."

"Tell me what you want, Brian. What you want me to _do_. The things you've never told me before."

His fingers reach the crest, up by the tip, my most nerve-packed and hyper sensitive spot. Here they toy with the ridge, running over the top, and around, pulling and stroking and teasing. Soft involuntary moans pour out of me.

He's insistent.

"Tell me what you want, Brian. What you _like_."

I crack open a lid and manage three words.

"I like this."

"No, Brian, _tell_ me. The stuff you've never told me. The stuff you're embarrassed about. The shit you beat off to."

Oh ... _that stuff_.

My lips part momentarily, and close again. I turn my head and blush. He strokes softly, slowly, incessantly. He's got me cornered physically, but more importantly, much more- mentally. I feel shy, and vulnerable

"Tell me, Brian." He's watching my face. "Tell me _now_."

I squirm at the direct order. It's his first clue. Every bottom's wish, every bottom's deepest desire, after all, is to please his top in bed, and then, to be taken, manhandled by him, roughly at times, sweetly at others, to be finished off, and then ... cradled. Held. But ever since I've been with Curt, my cravings in this area have deepened, and broadened. I want more. Much more. I just can't bring myself to say it.

His attentions slow to a crawl.

"_Brian_."

I lick my lips and gulp down a shallow breath.

"Yes."

He whispers.

"Spill. I wanna hear it."

I hesitate. I fidget.

His motion quickens.

"_Do it_. Tell me."

Oh god. Gulp. Fidget.

"_What you've never told me_."

I turn my head away.

I gasp as he takes my hands and moves them upright, against the wall above me. He holds them there with both hands so I get a clear view of his forearms in my face, his biceps, his neck, his _arm_ hair, the hair _under_ his arm, all of the things I secretly find so deliciously satisfyingly erotic and male.

I stammer.

"This, this is good," I whisper weakly.

"What is?"

I'm panting softly.

"What you're doing."

"Only?-"

I can't look at him. I can't speak. He does it for me.

"Only, it's not enough, is it? You want more."

My face flushes. I shut my eyes.

"_Yes._"

He pauses, letting this sink in, before dropping a hand to resume his strokings, keeping the first above, pinning me in place.

Oh god, it's so bloody goddam exciting, the feeling below, silky smooth, rhythmic, soft, yet firm; the feeling above, the sheer pleasure of the helplessness that the bindings engender and what that does to your brain, combined with his strength, the knowledge that just one of his hands can quite easily hold back two of mine. I pant further. I can taste it in my mouth, this dark, erotic satisfaction. I can feel it in the back of my throat.

"Brian."

I exhale. I whisper. My face is purple.

"I, I ... I'll sound like an idiot."

"No you won't."

My voice drops.

"Okay. I want you to be _harsh_ with me."

"Harsh?"

"Yes."

"That would excite you?"

"Yes."

"You mean, physically, or -?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. My voice is tiny.

"Both."

He strokes me at a medium pace. I'm extremely hard and it's nearly impossible to concentrate. The whole world right now, is his hand, his voice, and what they are both making me do.

"_Go on_."

Oh god. Don't make me explain. I blurt, agitated, frustrated, and as his attentions quicken, frustrated and excited beyond belief.

"Tell me what to do in bed. Tell me off. Be rough about it. Pin me down. _Tie_ me down. Tell me off the whole time. Be _stern." _I pant. "Don't be gentle. Whatever you do, don't stop. You'll know if I don't like it."

He leans back. His hands drop to his sides. He looks at me in silence, his face expressionless.

Did I upset him somehow? Is he disgusted? Turned off? I can't tell. My face flushes further.

He whispers.

"Close your eyes."

Oh goody. I do.

I listen. He steps away momentarily, then returns, pulling my hands down from above me and turning me quickly so that I face away from him. I'm incredibly nervous.

Next I feel soft material over my eyes. Oh god, oh sweet christ, YES, a blindfold! I want to scream with joy.

He binds it tightly, and turns me sharply back round to face him, adjusting the material so that it covers my eyes completely.

I'm panting like an idiot, in complete darkness.

"Oh, Curt-."

"-Shut up."

_Yes, yes, thank you god. Thank you_.

His voice turns sinister.

"Not a _word_ outta you, _understand_?"

OH GOD I DO LOVE HIM!

I gulp hard.

"_Yhes_."

He walks me in what I think is the direction of the bed, but I can't be entirely sure. Oh god, throw me down onto the mattress, _please_, please fuck my brains out, yes, pretty please.

I hear something scratching the floor that is then placed between me and the bed, or what I assume is the bed. A chair, or a stool, a box? I don't know.

He approaches from behind, wrapping his arms round my front as he rubs his face into my neck and jaw. Oh god, he smells amazing. And I so love this 'marking' business, like an animal claiming it's territory.

The leather of his pants rubs against me. I can feel his hardness through it. He whispers in with that deepest gravel.

"You have no idea how excited you make me ... you fucking little prick-tease."

He runs his hands over my bottom. I shiver and pant.

"No idea _how hard I'm gonna fuck you."_

_Oh!_

"How hard I'm gonna ram your hole. _Spread for me._"

Shit! I part my ankles.

"_More_," he barks.

I comply, spreading them perhaps 2 feet- I can't exactly tell.

I next hear the rubbing against the floor again, and realize he's brought the chair/stool and positioned it directly between my legs.

Ingenious! My knees are resting against the side of the mattress, and the width of the stool forces me to spread and stay that way, and ... it's so _wicked_ ... oh god, oh Curt ... how can you be so incredible? How can you know?

His hands softly caress the insides of my split thighs, fingering and tormenting in between, in that particularly sensitive area behind the the sac, causing me to squirm and writhe and wriggle.

"Wider," he whispers.

I try to comply, but it's a bit awkward.

"_Wider_."

I stretch myself more, panting with delirium.

"You want my cock," he announces.

Um, yes, please, sir.

"Up inside."

He whispers into my ear.

"_Right up that tight fuckhole._"

"_Yes_," I whimper.

"Filthy, perverted fucking queen."

_Yes, yes, I am, there can be no question._

I feel a push against my back.

"Lean ... all the way. _Elbows_. _Do_ it."

Shit! I do, and oh lord, if the feeling isn't indescribable. To be spread in such a manner, to have your man leaning on your back and commanding you, pushing you down, the feeling of vulnerability is ... my head ... I feel myself slip into some sort of bottom-fog, clouded and misty, clinging to his voice, hanging on every syllable, salivating, desperate for instruction.

My hands are then ... oh god.

"I'm tying you to the foot board. _So you won't be able to move while I fuck you, understand? __So I can fuck you ... so hard it's gonna hurt, understand? Hard as I want ... all fucking night_."

I'm wheezing excitedly.

"Yes, please, ... god!"

"Not a _word_, I said!"

* * *

><p><strong>LEGO<strong>

I'm kneeling, splayed out, forehead and forearm pressed to the the mattress, one hand white knuckling the headboard, the other flat against the wall in front, trying, once again, to survive.

At the end of a particularly hard backwards thrust, he ... oops ... slips out. Too greasy.

_Pop_ he goes, back inward ...

_"__Hoh _!" The air slips from my lungs. Oh, my dear sweet christ, that re-entry, that disarmingly delicious bit of sudden forced pressure. Let's face it, a cock, particularly the _head_ of a cock, wasn't exactly _designed_ to fit here. I take a perverse pleasure in likening it to the stuffing of a doorknob through a soft, highly sensitive keyhole.

He, impatient as always, immediately resumes his pace, quick, deep, only to just as suddenly ... what is this? Slowing and _deliberately_ pulling out ... ?

I turn my head and speak between pants.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Feels good," is his raspy/breathy response.

Practical, the lad is, in matters such as this, popping the head just inward, and then retreating completely back outside into the cold air, popping just inward, pulling out again ... as if that made any sense ... and why not? Because, after all, it feels so bloody _good_, trying out this brand new thing, never mind, boy, that you are right in the middle of a wholesale whip-fest of a _fuck_ and you haven't exactly stopped to explain yourself ...

And _now ... _dear_god_ ... he's sitting just outside, bouncing that rounded, fat tip against me, so that I'm no longer getting anywhere _near_ to a fuck, folks, ... but ... _fuck !_ this insane, gorgeous rhythmic sensation _..._ pressing himself against the mouth, the pucked bit of flesh that is absolutely desperate to be pushed past, taken ...

Toying, he is, experimenting with me, with my backside of all places, for his own amusement.

He well knows, of course, how nuts this bouncing business makes me, how it inexplicably shoots my blood pressure through the bloody fucking roof.

WHY, though? _Why_ is it so hot? I'm frustrated, I'm squirming, I'm pouting and bratty, I want to be FUCKED and yet this funny bobbing thing, this gentle bit of bouncy pressure is inextricably tripping every single one of my switches, over and over and bloody _over_.

Okay, but now he's back to this bloody pulling _out_ thing ... each one a miniature fuck which serves to cause repeated miniature earthquakes and eruptions and turmoil and confusion within me, tiny interior storms that last 5 seconds and then start all over again ... and most embarrassingly ... pull from me these odd, awkward, higher and higher pitched complete girly-sounds ...

"Hoh" (entry) ... (gasp)... "_hoh!"_(exit)

... like some demented, perverted Santa Claus.

Fiddling with my backside, the bastard, without one word to me, no thought of asking my opinion or permission, like I'm some box of Lego or Lionel train set he's messing with for the first time without consulting the manual, (of course), or, treating me like a guitar- rearranging, toying, playing, practicing his open tunings, trying to get the right feedback, the right _friction, _and meanwhile ...

"Hoh ... (gasp, wheeze) ... _HOH _!"

"Curt," I pant.

He exhales. He kisses my back. His voice is rough.

"Ya?"

"At least (pant, gasp), at least ... if you're gonna fuck with me ... at least turn me over so I can watch."

He exhales a small laugh. He likes this idea.

And now the retreat, for real, hands clutching my hips as I grit my teeth for that exquisite bit of delicious backwards pressure ... and then ... I'm carefully flipped over onto my back.

Oh god ... that face. Can't stay annoyed at him long. Boyish, flushed, aroused, playful, cheeky, pleased with himself, happy to go all summer in this manner. I grab at it, this face, jerking it straight into mine for a deep, ferocious kiss, the type that leaves him startled, breathless and moaning.

There, _see_? That's what you get.

Okay, and _now_, oh lord, here is what _I_ get ... knees pushed straight up in decided fashion, and he's closing in with that yummy twinkle in his eye, anxious to experiment, to play all night if he feels like it. His grin is sly and knowing as he thrusts forward, repeatedly pressing the tip inward, before quickly retreating again and forcing the awkward sounds from me, which he can now see is complete with an equally awkward face.

"Hoh! ... _hoh!_ ... hoh! ... _hoh!_ ..."

He speaks into my neck.

"That _sound_ you make."

I'm panting.

"_What _?! You think it's funny?"

"No. Fuckin' _hot_."

He mashes his mouth into mine for a long, spectacularly intensive kiss.

Oh. Okay. The problem I had with it again was ... ?

I'm lightheaded, with lids fluttering. He pops himself in and out twice more, and twice again, kissing my jaw as he does, and whispers, panting.

"I think I've discovered my new favorite thing in the world."

I laugh/snort, stretching my fingers up into his hair.

"'Shallow!', says the king of hard, fast, and deep."

He giggles.

"I've turned a corner. I might never go back."

"Oh yes you will ... Hoh! ... Hoh! ... _hoh_! ... HOH!"

He gasps out the words.

"God, it's fantastic, Brian, it's like I'm getting to fuck you a hundred times in a row, or something."

"What is it?" I hiss, "Why is it so amazing?"

"I don't know." He stops to explain. "It's like ... that tight ring around the opening, it's really super-strong, right?, and in some ways, the best part for me is piercing it, y'know? And when you pull out again, it pulls against you, it drags over you and it's like ... I mean, _shit_. I can't believe after 25 years, I've discovered a new way to fuck."

"You, the virgin."

"Yes."

We giggle. We kiss. Any lingering frustration I had has vanished. I so, so love this relaxed feeling, talking, taking our time as we make love, chatting and kissing, toying and playing and gasping, and chatting again.

He bounces now. Again ... again ... again ...

I squirm and writhe and mutter as he kisses me through it, whispering to me.

"You make me fucking _insane._"

I gasp sharply as he presses inward suddenly, slowly, and all the way. My eyes swell and bulge. He pushes deep, reaching the hilt, and then just ... bloody well sits there, pulsing away.

"_Fuck_," I pant, "I can feel you, I can feel exactly where you are in my body."

"I know. It's weird."

He remains in place. We kiss and hold each other.

"I love this," I whisper in his ear.

"Me too," he whispers back.

"I love _you_," I offer.

He smiles, radiant, then nuzzles into my neck, and retreats, careful and slow. I can feel every centimeter.

I clutch his forearm. "Why have we never done this before?"

He looks down at himself, pulling out at a snail's pace.

"Dunno. Normally, I just wanna _fuck_."

He's reached the ring and stops, and just ... sits there.

"Like the way you play music. It's balls-out, or nothing."

He resumes the slow return inward. _Oooh_, but it feels sweet.

He kisses me. "We complement each other perfectly, Demon."

"Yes. Total yin and yang."

"Exactly. Me, balls-out fast; you, smooth and sweet and intense."

"Well, don't paint me into too much of a corner. I can bang when I want to."

He grins.

"I know, my baby."

"I guess I just like to exercise a bit of tender, to balance you out, so we'll ... digest our food better."

He bursts out.

"Ya, that makes sense."

We kiss quickly. He slides back outward and speaks softly.

"Y'know, what you do is, you make love to me, you take your time, and it heightens all my senses until they're in day-glo, and like, speaking Spanish."

We laugh. He continues.

"I don't understand them, it's not all that familiar to me, but it's a gorgeous motherfucking thing nonetheless."

"You just like a little English once in a while."

We laugh.

"Yes."

He looks down at himself, raises his eyes to mine, and then speaks in his throatiest whisper.

"You ready for more?"

I bat my eyelids.

"What a _question_."

He steadies himself and then quickly _pops_ completely outward ... then straight in again, _just_ in; out, in, and proceeds to engage in the world's most insanely delicious super-quick, super-shallow hip thrust, actually fucking me this way, sans any sort of inward stride at all ... and I don't actually know if I can take it. Inexplicably it's twice as taxing on the body and twice as exciting ... it has that much more impact, this exquisite/unbearable bottom-popping, like I'm a virgin all over again, each time.

Just as suddenly, he stops. I'm gasping for my life. My eyes fly open. He's grimacing.

"What is it?"

"Sorry. It's just ... my back's killing me for some reason. It's just, the angle or something."

"Oh, my angel. Lay down."

He retreats and falls sideways onto his back. He doesn't need to be told twice.

I climb aboard. I touch his forehead and brush the hair from his eyes.

"Does it really hurt, my love?"

"It's better now." He grins. "I'll guess I'll have to lie still for a while."

"Pity. But why on earth would it hurt? We've only fucked 36 times this weekend."

He laughs. I lean into his neck and whisper.

"I'll top from now on. You'll take your orders from _me_."

"Ya?"

We giggle and smooch.

I lean upright and look. There are few things I love more in this world, than these just-before moments when we speak to eachother with our eyes, the electric current sizzling and humming away between us.

I reach. I gently grasp his cock and lather it with fresh lube, taking my time, stroking the length, revelling in the changes in his breath, that slight squirm he goes into, those muttered curses. We exchange glances and it excites me no end, watching him as he watches me get him ready.

He grabs my head suddenly and pulls me into a fierce, breathless kiss. Enough fucking around, it says.

I pull away. I move forward, tilt, and lean my pelvis back, just at that perfect angle, aiming precisely for him, bringing him towards that bullseye target, which, when located, without further ado, I summarily puncture.

In this moment, always, the breath gushes forth from our lungs as if they've been stepped on.

And now it is for me to get down to business, to bounce hard and rhythmic in his lap. I bear down on him with the upright thrust, and let loose on the downward, gliding with ease, and it feels, needless to say, like a million bucks on fire.

Directly in front of him, too tantalizingly close, there is definitely a plaything: my cock.

He grabs for it, immediately forming a tight cylinder with his fist, which he holds stationary, so that as I move, I'm fucking his hand.

If there was ever a sensation that tasted of heaven, chocolate truffles and true love, this would surely be it. To rock and thrust, to jump up and down and impale oneself on a warm, swollen cock, forcing it deep into your body, when at the same time, the very same motion affords you the sweetest, strongest, most intense jerking of your life?

Needless to say, we can withstand very little ...

After a minute, he inhales sharply, his body shakes, then goes rigid, face contorts, and inside of me I feel a warm gush of spurted liquid as his beautiful strained cries fill the air.

A split seconds later, I erupt copiously, the spray glancing off my chest and plopping down onto his, the sight of which excites us both no end. I quickly dismount and dive on him, grabbing at his hair, kissing madly, excitedly rubbing our come-splattered torsos together.

Quickly he yanks me up his body and I watch in astonishment as he mashes his face into my chest, kissing and licking and lathering his lips, his tongue, his jaw, _teeth_, all over and through it, crazily inhaling and ingesting the sticky white mess.

In a year of twosomes, threesomes, mass orgies, one night stands and absolutely everything in between, with people all over the world of every gender, persuasion, proclivity, perversion and position, it is the single wildest, most erotic act of animal lust I've ever witnessed.

I leap down, pulling and grabbing at his face and hair as he grabs and yanks at mine, rubbing and sliding my lips at him, licking and tasting and sucking, passing the foul salty fluid between us. It has ignited a white-hot fiery pit in my belly which will not be extinguished, no matter that I've, we've, both just come. No matter that we've had more sex in as short a space of time as any two people ever should.

With Curt and sex, every rule is made for breaking, every norm, for shattering.

I dive downward, between his knees, the burning in my gut eating away at me like acid. I lower my face and firmly grasp the base in my right hand. He stops dead and raises his head.

"Don't," he pants.

I don't respond, too busy eying the flushed, sticky, lube-y, come-y, freshly fucked appendage.

"You can't, Brian."

I'm panting, mouth hovering, mouth watering

"I want to."

"You _can't_."

"Why not?!"

"You _know_ why not."

I look, from _it_, up to him, and back again, lips at the ready, leaning closer.

"_Brian_."

I close my eyes, I gulp, I pant.

"_I really want to!_"

"Listen to me, Brian: No you _don't_. Plus, I'm fried; I'm done for. There's no possible way."

I whisper.

"There's always a way."

He swallows. He leans his head back into the pillow.

"I'm not getting in the tub. I'm exhausted. Plus my back-"

"-No, stay where you are, I'll just get a clean wet towel-"

"-It's not enough, Brian."

I pout, brattily.

"But how do you _know_?!"

"Because I was stupid enough to do it once! You'll get really sick and then pass it onto me! I ended up at the free fucking clinic with a bastard of a stomach bug, downing antibiotics for months."

I'm twisted up and frustrated and antsy and pissy. I believe him, but I don't want to listen to him- it's a measure of how exceedingly badly I want to swallow his cock right at this moment, that even the threat of illness and the generally revolting nature of what I'm trying to convince him to let me do, is still giving me pause.

I remain in place, face hovering, hand at the ready, still arguing, albeit through a whisper.

"We've rimmed each other."

"That's totally different. That's the outside, and plus we were clean, remember? It was right after my bath that time, and then I did you in the jacuzzi."

I'm exasperated, still not ready to give up, thinking, thinking.

"If we just had a condom!," I blurt bitterly. "Ironic- two blokes, and right now I'd give a million fucking pounds for a single condom."

"I don't think you wanna suck on rubber."

I look up at him.

"As long as your cock's underneath, I would."

"I can never feel anything with those, anyway."

"Oh, you'd feel _this_."

He raises his head suddenly.

"Wait, you know what? I think I might have one in my bag."

I fly off the bed and lunge for it.

"Where?!"

"Try the top outside pocket, the small one on the left, maybe."

I yank open the zipper and plunge my hand inside ... and pull out the most beautiful and exciting thing I've ever seen in my life - _three_ unused, if rumpled condoms. My grin splits my face completely in two ... then turns to a frown so quickly it hurts.

"_Why did you bring condoms to Spain?_"

He exhales in exasperation and flops his head back on the pillow.

"Brian, they're _old_. Do I look like I own more than one suitcase? It's my tour bag."

"But why would you-"

"-Just in _case_. I ran into a couple of chicks once who wouldn't fuck me without it."

I crawl back onto the bed and up his body, smiling crooked.

"Impossible to imagine. It must have been a very long time ago. The way you look right now ... "

I clamp my mouth down over his for a brief but potent kiss before pulling back, placing the corner of the tiny envelope in my mouth and ripping it open. I whisper to him.

"The things I'm gonna do to you with my mouth ..."

He places a hand on my jaw.

"I need some time."

"You'll get all the time you need, my dear. I'm very patient when it comes to your cock."

He laughs breathily.

"No you're not. Not when it comes to oral."

"You mean, sucking you off."

He blinks. He grins. It's struck a nerve.

"Ya."

I move towards his neck.

"Don't worry. It won't take you very long."

He sighs.

"I'm so fucking exhausted, Brian; I seriously can barely keep my eyes open."

I kiss his earlobe and speak huskily.

"Close them, then. Go to sleep. I'll wake you up in a very special way."

He laughs that soft, weary, breathy, exquisitely sexy laugh.

"You're not taking no for an answer, here."

I nibble on on the edge of his jaw.

"Are you telling me no? Because _that_ would be a terrible shame."

There is a brief pause.

"No."

"Good. Just lay there comfortably, then. Fall asleep if you must. Brian Slade will take care of everything."

He smiles.

"Brian _Slade_ will, okay."

I kiss his sternum and collar bone.

"Brian Slade is the man you are married to. To others, he is many things, a shyster, an artist, a hack, a genius, a two-bit, unreliable showman, a filthy rich, wildly successful _businessman ..."_

I catch him grinning as I encircle his nipple with my tongue.

"... but there is one thing in this world he is exceedingly, exceedingly partial to as well as exceedingly bloody good at, the one thing in this world it is clear he was put on this earth to do, more than anything else, and that, Master Wild, is sucking you off."

He gulps, as I move my mouth further down his body ...

"I see," he whispers.

... stopping to kiss and lick the base of his ribcage, perhaps the most beautiful viewing-spot on his body, as it sits on the precipice of the slightly bumpy collection of muscles at the top of the slight inward curve that defines his stomach, and from there ... is everything _south_.

My tongue circles round and enjoys a brief trip into his navel which, as always, causes him to exhale that sexy and adorable ticklish breathy laugh I love. It is the last laugh he will be having for a while.


	66. Early Dawn

_**A/n:** Okay, one more before I go (and THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY REVIEWS! WOW- SO THRILLING!). I thought I had posted this already in the past couple of days but apparently not as I can't seem to find it. Anyway, it is thus far my only foray into erotic 'poetry', or a reasonable, but probably pretty bad facsimile thereof. It was inspired by the idea of a courtroom, and Brian coming to Curt's rescue, echoing what is maybe a central theme of their relationship – that, simply put, Curt desperately needs rescuing, and in his efforts to do so - in his dreams of doing so - Brian is transformed, and finds meaning._

* * *

><p><strong>EARLY DAWN <strong>

In the sweet slippery morning,

as the warm rays of sunlight streak across his body,

as his chest and neck flush and heave,

as he writhes about in slow, soft agony,

as his hands reach into my hair, searching for answers, and drop back down when none are found,

I absolve his stitches

absorb his scar tissue

and pull the poison from his veins.

* * *

><p>As his condition worsens,<p>

as he exhales scattered, ragged syllables like a broken flugelhorn,

as his toes and fingers curl, bend and clench,

I meld with his flesh

stretching my lips to make him ill,

hollowing my cheeks to make him suffer,

swirling my mouth to make his brain spin, sputter, and spin again.

* * *

><p>As his spent form tightens and readies,<p>

as the spasms prepare to rack his body,

I shield and shelter, foster and nourish,

settle his scores and

master his demons.

* * *

><p>As he petitions me,<p>

as he implores me,

as he entreats me,

as he, at last, surrenders to me,

At the last possible moment,

I come to his rescue,

and intercede on his behalf.


	67. More bits

**A/n:** the first one below is kind of a weird semi violent one - maybe a fantasy of Brian's? Or a dream or daydream he has? Some of the others are just unfinished bits from various places in the story. Some are okay, and some aren't very good, imo and some I don't know where I was headed. This I guess is for those asking for all I've written on these boys. Some of this is so old I'd actually totally forgotten I'd written it. Anyway, hope you and enjoy, and hope this isn't getting redundant ...

* * *

><p><strong>And in the night<strong> we fucked and fucked and fucked without pause, with a helplessness, with a violence of thirst so unceasing as to be spun dry - the lube having long since quit.

In the process, he flipped me and cornered me and bent me back and bent me to him and pinned me and placed me and pierced me and split me and splintered me and twisted and tested and turned and throttled me and righted and bruised and stretched me and skinned and vetted and used me and coaxed me and minced me and fought and finished and spun me round and ground me up and held me close and held me down and resurfaced my flesh, punished my backside, betrayed my hiding places, exposed my secrets, wound my clock and set the alarm, taught me all that was right and good.

When finished, he turned away and let my limp form be, tripped up, perturbed, perplexed, transfixed, aching and pulsing and nauseous and hideously aroused. I lay with eyes wide, bloodshot and blinking, desperate for release, for peace. Starved, being handed a glass of water and told to rinse.

In an hour he stirred and pulled me to him, whispering his love, stroking the center, pulling me up, up, to the ceiling, to the sky, inside out and knotted to bits and floating free and moving my hand.

In the morning he knelt me and slapped, chased me down and dragged me back and pushed me to the door and made me eat paint and I broke and wept and pleaded and crawled and came.

* * *

><p><strong>I hesitate.<strong>

He whispers.

"Please."

"Are you sure?-"

"-Please."

I look down. I run a thumb over the moisture on his lips. I feel guilty for wanting it, for the strength of my desire for him, even at this moment. I doubt he can know what he needs, what is right for him in this fragile state, at this fragile moment.

I whisper tenderly, carefully as I can.

"Curt, I don't think it's a good idea."

He sobs.

"Why?"

I study his face. I brush the tears back and run my fingers up into his hair. I lower myself to kiss him.

* * *

><p><strong>I spy his mouth<strong> and move in closer. His lips are ridiculously intoxicating.

"I, I don't know."

I kiss him once and pull away. The blood bangs in my temple.

"Curt?"

"Mmm?"

"Tell me again what you said before, about ... slow sex and ... lovemaking ...?"

He blinks and clears his throat. He seems embarrassed. Our fingers entwine.

"I um," he lets out a shy laugh. "I think I said I'd never really-"

I close my mouth over his.

* * *

><p><strong>C wakes up B<strong> from sound sleep:

"I just gotta say this because I'm feeling it really deep and I'll probably be too chickenshit in the morning: I love you, okay? And I don't wanna hear anything bullshit response just cuz I said it."

B raises head in protest. "Curt-"

C covers B's mouth. "Don't talk, I said, you fucker! No bullshit!"

_"Curt!"_

"No, shut up! I'm dead serious!"

* * *

><p><strong>When I came to,<strong> I was vagely aware of having been pushed with force onto the bed. I landed with a

bounce and felt an immediate yanking at the bottom of my trouser legs. I raised up onto my elbows and lifted my hips to aid him. Then he was quickly rifling through the nighttable.

"Second drawer".

He ripped it open and yanked out the bottle, then looked at me with surprise and confusion.

"It's warm".

"Heated drawer ... specially ... designed", I heard myself mutter, still lost in the fog.

I cracked open an eye to see him crawling up the bed, between my legs. Incredibly, I was so completely spent I felt like I couldn't take any more. Now Curt Wild was going to fuck me?!

"Pre-heated lube!" He laughed throatily, and leaned down into my neck, whispering. "You spoiled little fucking princess."

I pushed back at him. He sat up. "What?"

I reached out and unclipped the Buckle, dropping it to the floor, then yanked down his zipper, no small feat considering the tightness of his trousers, and the prominent lump thereunder. He began to undo the top button but I batted his hand away. He looked at me.

"You're going to fuck me with these on."

He grinned. "Okay".

I yanked the bottle out of his hand and squirted the oily liquid into my palm, then reached for him.

Unsurprisingly, he sprang forward like a too-long wound catapult.

I blinked. The thing I had pictured and thought about and dreamed of and wet-dreamed about and beat off to a hundred and seventy odd times in the last few weeks: Curt Wild's cock, his beautiful fully swollen cock, in my bleeding fucking hands.

* * *

><p><strong>I flop onto my back.<strong>

He turns on his side and begins reaching for me.

"No- you've been through enough, you're too spent."

He grins "I'm never too 'spent' to-"

I cover his hand with mine.

"Curt-"

"What?", he's laughing as he tries get around my hand.

I'm slightly embarrassed, shy. I certainly shouldn't be, considering all that we've done, but for some reason am. I've never done this before.

"I-I, wouldn't mind ... actually ... if you just ... watched."

"Watched?"

"watched me ... touch myself."

He grins sweetly. "'Touch yourself'? His face then becomes serious and he speaks in the husky whisper, for maximum impact.

"If I watched you ... beating off, you mean?"

I gulp. He takes my hand and folds it around the shaft and holds it, guiding my strokes. I nearly collapse.

"I would like that."

He leans closer. His words slow, and voice lowers as he breathes into my neck, hand moving mine at a moderate pace.

"It would really excite me ... to watch you ..."

My eyes shut tight.

"... stroke yourself ..."

"I might get this terrible craving to ... to suck you *off* ..."

Fuck! I'm panting now, picturing it.

"To take you down my throat ..."

"If I watch you ...

My eyes shut tight. My how words can have impact.

"But mostly what I would want, Brian ... "

Oh god, the pauses. I'm hanging, toes on the edge of the cliff, onto his every syllable.

"Is for you to fuck me."

My head kicks back slightly, eyes fly open and seal shut again.

"I'd be so jealous that I wasn't that guy."

"Or if I looked down and watched you ... like I did tonite ... sucking me off ..."

"-Oh god!" I blurt. The pace of his hand quickens. He licks my lobe.

"Taking it right down your throat."

"OH!" I'm curling my toes and writhing. How does he do it? How does he know?

"My come ..."

His hand is a blur.

"dripping ..."

He bites my lobe. I can't see, I can't think.

"off your lips ..."

I'm pouring sweat, head pitched straight back into the pillow. Every cell, every ounce of my being tightly focused, hyperaware.

"Sliding down your neck ..."

His hand lets go. His voice changes. More spoken than whispered.

"I want you to fuck me, Brian."

"Oh!" I'm whimpering and squirming like a fool, seconds from the finish line.

"I want you to FUCK ME." .

I let out a final cry and it hits. My entire body goes rigid, bend backwards, and I come with force onto my chest and neck, tingling, gasping.

He climbs over me and presses my hands back into the mattress, next to my head. He then leans down. What I next see is in slow motion: His tongue protrudes. It's full and wide. It dives without hesitation into the white pool, retreats and he then moves straight upward.

* * *

><p><strong>"And, I need to admit<strong> something to you."

"Great, what?"

I take a deep breath.

He looks at me.

"Before we had sex at all, I was so turned on by you, I used to beat off all the time, imagining you doing various things-"

"Ya, so what. I did the same with you."

My voice goes high pitched.

"You DID?!"

"YES, of course, Brian. Can you keep your stupid voice down please? And kindly get to the fucking point so we can *leave* already ?"

"Okay, my point is, that probably the number one thing I pictured, aside from sucking you off of course, which was *always* first and foremost in my mind-,"

"-WAS?"

"Was watching you fuck. Not being fucked by you, or fucking you, but *watching* you fuck someone- men, women, whatever. Just the idea of seeing you in motion, driven mad with pure lust- it was about the most beautiful thing I could think of, aside from being scorching hot, obviously."

"Okay, so you've admitted this fascinating little fact to me. I've heard you. I really wanna go home now."

"Curt! I'm trying to say that I'm okay with it if you want to give her a toss, because I know it can't possibly interfere with *us*, and it at the same time will turn both of us on immensely."

"NO way, Brian. I'm not playing those bullshit games. No."

"I wanna see you devour someone!"

"Well then we'll put a mirror over the bed!"

"Curt, you sat with this girl for 15 minutes and couldn't even talk because she speaks no English. 15 minutes with the same gorgeous knockout girl, without talking. And at the end of it, you were hard. You told me, remember?"

"Yes, I fucking remember! That's not the point, Brian! The point is, I love *you*, and I want to be with *you*, even though you're *thoroughly* pissing me off right now!"

"And I love *you*, and nothing's gonna change that! And at the same time, we're both intrigued by this idea, even if you won't admit it. But I promise you, I won't ever bring this up again after tonite. But Curt, just a few days ago you compared eating pussy with Christmas, and *because* I love you so much, I refuse to let you deny yourself the pleasure. I'm asking her."

"NO!"

"Curt, even in all the time we've been talking, you're hard still. Did you think I didn't notice?"

"I don't care if you noticed! I get hard after every show."

"Ya, but not for a bloody half hour!"

He doesn't respond.

I lean in, and whisper seductively into his ear.

"Think about it. It's right there for the taking. Throwing that skirt up around her waist and plowing into that tight wet pussy ... no stopping for lube ... super-sensitive nipples ..."

"Stop it, Brian!" He figits and clears his throat. "I'm leaving."

"Good, then it's settled. I'm inviting her home with us right now."

"Brian!" He reaches for me, but I've scooted under his grasp and am quickly approaching her. He hurries after me, and begins shaking his head 'no' and waving his hands horizontally in front of him.

* * *

><p><strong>I open my eyes,<strong> and then remember- it was a few days back, just prior to our first oral. Suddenly I'm hit with a tremendous sadness; the realization that if we've been here a few days, we only have a few more left.

I step forward and wrap him in my arms, eyes watering. "Curt, I don't want to go."

He kisses the side of my face and slides his hands round my back, whispering softly.

"Go?"

My tears drop onto his shoulder.

"Oh."

He holds me in silence, softly caressing my back, before speaking.

"Brian, I love you. We'll work it out."

I pull back, sniffling. "We have the fucking record to do, followed immediately by the tour- 7 months."

"But I'm opening for you, for part of that, anyway."

"Ya, a small part- a few weeks. And even then, you know how insane it always is, the whole entourage," My chin is trembling. "Fucking Jerry, everybody pawing at me."

A sob chokes out and the tears jump from my eyes.

He holds my face. "It's alright, Brian."

"But ... I'm a different person there. I have to be. I don't wanna become that person again."

"You won't." He kisses me softly. "I'll make sure of it. I'll come with you."

I pull back. "You can't- you'll be in New York."

"Fuck New York!" He shouts playfully. "Love is more important that New York! I'll push it ahead til after the tour!"

"You can't !"

He grins. "Yes I can, and I will! I'm young and free and completely irresponsible! Also, flat fucking broke and widely known as an unreliable junkie, so therefore, I'm delighted to report, I'm a terrible investment!"

We laugh and kiss quickly.

"I promise you, Mr Demon, they won't hardly notice. The question is, how will we explain this to _your_ people?"

I grin. "Fuck my people!"

He presses me back against the tile. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd rather fuck _you_.

* * *

><p><strong>"You're amazing, you know that?<strong> I look up to you so much."

I stop dead. I stand back.

"You _what _?"

He laughs again.

"I look up to you."

"But ... ?" I squint, "I mean, in what _way_ do you look up to me? Yes, I've been successful in a business sense-"

"-Fuck. It's not _business_. Give me a little credit. It's what you're made of. It's who you are as a person."

"But I'm such fucking little selfish twat! A right twit ! A complete prat !"

He giggles in spurts.

"Jesus christ, first of all, don't use those prissy English phrases on me, okay? You sound like the queen tryin' to cuss-"

"-Fuck off!"

"_Second _of all_,_ I _know_ you've got that side to you," he laughs teasingly, "I think I've experienced each one of 'em so far, but those things are only a small part of who you are, Brian. I mean, come on, you get actual _joy_ out of rescuing somebody- even a junkie faggot like me!"

We laugh. I speak softly.

"But that's only a measure of how much I love you. The average junkie faggot, I could give a shit about."

We smile. I continue.

"It doesn't mean you should look up to me necessarily."

"Brian, do you not know how amazing you are? I look up to you because you're incredibly giving and warm and _loyal_ and funny as fuck and _generous_ and ... unbelievably caring. And you have this really deep, heavy side to you, too, on top of being smart and tough as nails- think of your dealings with Jerry and all the bullshit with the business people and Mandy and the _press_. You have this way of just

... cutting right through it all. You're so-"

"-Handsome," I add, smiling.

He laughs.

"Oh yes, that too, hot as all fuck, in fact, blistering, in bed." He smiles warmly. "Lucky me."

I clear the table and move towards the dishwasher.

"Okay, so Maria's bringing all the cleaning shit- dusters, vacuum cleaner, etc. We'll just bring ourselves and maybe a bottle of window wash. I'm packing us a picnic lunch, and then afterwards, we'll probably do a bit of rehearsal."

"Rehearsal?"

"Ya, you know, run through things for the wedding day."

"Well, what is there to rehearse, though?"

"Curt, weddings don't just _happen_. You gotta plan a little. You know, how we want it done, in what order, all that. Bella's gonna practice her flower girl stuff."

"Okay. I've never been to a wedding."

"Me either, actually. I mean, except my own, which doesn't count- it was a quickie in some ministry office."

"How long will ours take?"

"However long we want it to, my love. It can be as formal or freewheeling as we want."

"I like tradition."

"I know, my darling, but you have to be more specific than that. What does traditional mean to you? What do you picture?"

He shrugs.

"Dunno. Just something that makes it feel real. And to me that means, y'know, old stuff, sorta formal, I guess ..."

"That doesn't help much. I think most weddings involve a reading from the bible or holy book or poem, or some favorite passage from a book or something, then couple's vows and then the actual ceremony."

"'Do you take this man', that stuff."

"Yes."

He reflects a moment.

"So ... Does that sound traditional enough?"

"Ya, I guess. I have no frame of reference, that's the problem. Except for stuff in the movies or whatever."

I speak steady, free of any emotion.

"Well, remember, Angelina will be there today, and she's an amateur wedding planner. We could always talk to her."

He instantly looks uneasy.

I walk behind his chair, place my hands on his shoulders and kiss the top of his head.

"Don't worry, my love. I promise to behave myself."

He takes a drag and exhales. He looks down.

"This subject makes me uncomfortable."

I cup his cheek.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's my fault."

I sit.

He says nothing.

I raise his chin.

"I can handle it, Curt. Even if you look at her- I can handle it."

He shoots me an annoyed look.

"I wasn't going to."

I lay a hand over his.

"Listen. This is silly. She's extraordinarily pretty. It's _okay_ to look. It's _normal_. Any man would. What _isn't_ normal is how I've behaved. But I'm done with that. I promise you."

He puffs and exhales.

I cup his jaw.

"Did you ever see Wuthering Heights, the old movie ?"

"Um ... no."

"Well there's this line in the film. This exchange between David Niven and Merle Oberon, who are married, right before Lawrence Olivier, who plays her old flame, is about to enter the room. David says to her: 'You may look at him without fear of offending me, because it's my _wife_ who looks; my wife who loves me.'"

I reach and take his hand.

"You'll be my _husband, _Curt. That means I love and trust you above all others, and so I won't ever have a moment's doubt about where your heart is, about who it belongs to."

His face softens.

"Well, what about you?" He asks. "Do you never notice attractive people when we're out?"

"If someone's really striking, I can't help but notice them, but there's noticing someone, and then there's being _interested_ in them, interested in pursuing something, and that doesn't happen, ever."

I grasp his hand.

"I got all I need right here."

He half smiles, then it fades quickly.

"Do you never worry though ... that we'll get sick of eachother and shit ? I mean, I hate to bring her up, but you and Mandy at one point-."

"-Curt, I told you. There is no comparing whatever Mandy and I once had with what you and I have. You are my whole world, and everything I could possibly ever want, need, or desire is inside that world. That will never change. Do you know how I know? Because even if I don't behave like it all the time, I'm a grownup. I'm 25 years old now, not a child like when Mandy and I first met, and I've lived a _whole_ fuck of a lot for someone my age. I've been all over the world _twice_ and met thousands of people and fucked hundreds of 'em and even had a few relationships thrown into the mix. I'm a big boy and I know what I want, and that's you, my dear. Period."

* * *

><p><strong>"I'm surprised by my own feelings<strong> right now."

"Don't be. It's _normal_."

"I guess I know exactly how you feel."

I raise a tender hand to his face.

"It just means we're possessive of each other. Not a bad thing; it's natural; we're about to be married."

"I know. I'm being an asshole."

I whisper.

"Shhh. That's not it at all. It's very sweet. You want me entirely to yourself, and believe me, that's exactly how I feel about you."

* * *

><p><strong>My sweet jesus<strong> but he _is_ a sight to behold- damp, bedraggled, near to spent, with a glint in his eyes that is only there at times such as these, mid-stream between arousal and orgasm.

To experience him at times like this, at the height of his vulnerability and neediness ... sigh ... there is just nothing else like it in the whole world.

"But it didn't involve genitalia! You didn't need to stop."

"But if I didn't, it would have led somewhere."

"So let it! I'm so desperate, even _thumbsucking_ gets me off, do you hear me?! Why did you _do_ it, Curt?"

"I'm sorry ! I just ... it was _spontaneous_. I got carried away! For some reason it ... I didn't think! Your lips were like, _melting_, or something ... it was all I could see ... I just ..."


	68. Departure

**A/N:** Okay, as promised, some non-bits, starting with this enormously long chapter, which I hope you enjoy - it's one of my favorites.

One bit of 'poetic license': as you may recall from a few chapters back in this epic story, Brian had told his manager - had blatantly _lied_ to his manager - in an effort to prolong he and Curt's stay in Ibiza so that they could get married and have a proper church wedding (and wedding cake, etc.) - by saying that the reason they needed to postpone coming home to begin the recording of Curt's album was because Curt had broken his leg and the doctor had supposedly said he therefore could not fly. The only issue was, I couldn't figure out how to work a cast and set of crutches into the story of their return to London, so I simply didn't include it. Also, the boys have just been married and are wearing their wedding rings, but as soon as they land I don't have Mandy notice, which is also unrealistic, but oh well.

This chapter contains a major event in the entire story which is our very first glimpse into Curt and Mandy being in the same room together. It's not their first time meeting, of course, but it's _our_ first time seeing them interact and it's especially intense and explosive ... **and I'm dying to know what you guys think,** so reviews are especially appreciated! Thank you so much and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>In the final few hours of our final weekend in Ibiza, as he pulls my weary slumbering form from the bed and out onto the tiny balcony overlooking the water, as he holds me tight to him in the warm breeze, as he kisses me and whispers earnestly of his love, as he moves to gently pierce my body and penetrate my heart, as the sun points upward before us and the sky paints brilliant, perfect hues …<p>

I weep …

… For the close of this magical sacred time together, alone and unspoiled, virginal and true …

… For the fears so strongly felt, of our pending return to society, to 'real life' and all the pressures and potential wedges that await …

… For all the hard work that it will be to remain as close as we are here, natural and plain and unfettered and so deeply in love.

I weep … for the smell of his skin, the hardness and warmth of his flesh, the slow, shallow, rhythmic breaths in my ear, and the sobbing that matches mine.

I raise a hand to his wet face.

"_Oh, Curt,"_ I whisper, as he comes.

* * *

><p>On the plane he mostly sleeps, and being mostly unable to despite the depths of my exhaustion, I mostly watch him. He looks beautiful, of course, lips parted slightly, that hint of lovely blond stubble, face mashed into the pillow, lids twitching. I hold his hand the entire way, hoping with all my heart that he will listen.<p>

"Whatever you do, don't take the bait," I have told him repeatedly. "Don't let her fuck with you, Curt- she's a master manipulator and wants nothing more than to rile you up and mess with your confidence and concentration. Say as little as possible, ignore her as much as you can, no matter what."

"Christ, Brian, the more you talk, the more nervous it's making me. What kind of monster are you married to?"

"She's not a monster, she's just a horribly vindictive bitch who, remember, is encountering the Other Woman for the first time, in the flesh, not some one night trick this time, but a person that she knows I'm madly in love with, who poses the ultimate of threats to her. Put yourself in her shoes for a second."

"I don't give a shit about putting myself in her shoes!" He snaps. "I never fucking did anything to her! If you guys are through, it's not my doing or my fucking fault!"

"But it _is_ your fault. _You_ came into my life and from her perspective, you are _replacing_ her."

He rubs his hands up and down his face and sighs wearily.

"Can we please talk about something else ? Don't I have enough pressure and shit on my plate with the album and the tour without this motherfucking soap opera?"

I move closer and push my face into his neck.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

* * *

><p>As the plane touches down with a bump, we both awaken. At some point I had fallen asleep after all, still holding his hand.<p>

My stomach clenches as I look out the window at Heathrow's tarmac.

"Are we here?" he asks, groggily.

"Yes." I lean in to kiss him. "You slept the whole way, my love."

He rubs an eye.

"Did I?" He mashes his lips a moment. "My mouth tastes like shit."

He sighs and looks at me nervously.

"You ready for this? For everything?"

I squeeze his hand, and try to sound relaxed and confident.

"Don't worry. It will be a brief meeting, as brief as humanly possible, and then we're heading straight home to bed, so we'll start off fresh in the morning." I smile. "You'll die when you see the house."

The plane finishes it's journey and the few on board stand. Because of my VIP status with airport security, we are hurried off first, and into a waiting limo, which quickly whisks us to a private back door reserved for the famous and well connected.

My heart pounds. We pass through the door firmly holding hands. I, rubbing a finger over Curt's wedding ring.

In the next instant, I hear it. A high pitched shriek … and then, there is Mandy running towards me, in some garish outfit.

"Daahling!" She rushes forward and wraps both arms round my neck planting several kisses up and down my face and babbling excitedly. I frown, and resist the urge to turn my face away from her. Lord how I despise the charade.

"Don't you look handsome! All tanned and lovely! I could eat you up right now!" she giggles. Curt drops my hand as she pulls me away from him; as I turn my head, my heart sinks. He looks so hurt, but there's nothing I can do. She puts my neck in the crook of her elbow and walks onward, blathering away.

"I was such a busy little girl while you were away! Busy busy!"

"I'll bet," I reply dryly.

She giggles. "Oh, not that type of busy, my daahling, I mean, there was so much business to attend to, you have no idea! It was fun! So many people wanted to talk to you, the press of course, someone from that publishing outfit who wants to do another book on you, someone who wants to do a book on _me_, even Auntie Prunie wants an audience."

"Auntie Prunie called?" Out of the corner of my eye, Curt walks solemnly behind us, staring blankly at the floor.

"Yes, my dear. She wants to see us before the tour, the sooner the better, she said. There were so many bloody calls." Then she adds almost as an afterthought. "Oh, Lou Reed called."

I stop dead. "Lou _Reed_ called?"

"Yes. He's in London for a few days, and he wants to meet you."

Curt and I exchange glances and astonished laughs. His eyes are excited.

"Jesus christ, when did he call?"

"Last week, but I had to tell him you were away."

"Whaaat?!"

"What was I supposed to do, Brian? You stole away in the middle of the night," she shifts her head dismissively in Curt's direction, "with _him_, and didn't tell anyone."

"You knew where I was!," I shout, "You could have called me!"

"I did call you, if you recall!", she snarls angrily, then instantly resumes a calm tone, something I always find unsettling. "Not to worry, my dear," she touches my lip, "Mandy always looks out for her man. He's still in town. He's not leaving til morning."

I glance back at Curt. We're so bloody fried, but we can't exactly say no.

"Where is he?"

We exit through a door where a second limo awaits. We enter, with Mandy making sure to slide in tight, between Curt and I, shoulder turned completely away from him.

"I've invited him to a party at my flat. We're heading there now."

"Mandy, we've just flown 6 hours. We've got our bags. We're exhausted."

"So you're gonna pass up a chance to meet Lou Reed?"

She turns to Curt for the first time.

"_You_ two will have plenty to talk about. He was a heroin addict, for years."

"Terrific," Curt says sarcastically, not looking at her.

"Shut up, Mandy," I hiss, fists clenching.

"It's the truth." She turns and addresses him again. "Have you kicked yet, or haven't you?"

"Fuck OFF !" I shout at her.

She shrugs. "I wasn't the only one: _Everyone_ wondered out loud if Curt had slipped up, if that was the _real_ reason you delayed things another week."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

It's all I can do to stop myself from throtting her, right here and now.

"Mandy, if you don't–"

"–Why are you so defensive about this? These are valid questions. He's a junkie and–"

He speaks sarcastically under his breath, still facing forward.

"–a loser."

"Yep," she nods.

"–Absolute whore," he continues, "Filthy whore. Don't forget that."

"Oh, I haven't."

He looks at her sweetly.

"I fucked _you_ after all."

She laughs.

"Clever boy!"

I'm sweating. My heart is racing.

She turns to him. Her voice drips with sarcasm.

"Did you have a nice time at our house in Ibiza?"

"Ya, I had a _great _time in your bed," he deadpans, "Sorry, the sheets are pretty sticky."

"Oh well," she chuckles, "Brian and his skanks. He can never resist a pretty face."

He looks at her.

"Then what's his excuse for you?"

She laughs sarcastically.

He answers his own question.

"Oh ya, I forgot: you faked being pregnant."

_Oh … no_.

There is a pause that is long enough to know that Mandy is very definitely taken aback.

I'm of two minds about this. The scoring if such an unexpected zinger feels delicious, of course, triumphant, and serves to tells Mandy that she won't be able to just roll over him – he will hold his own and dish out exactly what is dealt him, and I can't help but feel impressed by and proud of Curt.

On the other hand, I recognize that a very dangerous line has just been crossed. A crack on _that_ intimate a level has just invited Mandy into an arena where absolutely anything and everything is on the table, which is a guarantee of one thing: that it will escalate, and with Mandy, who I well know from experience must always have the last laugh and nastiest most vindictive final word, this is particularly worrying. It is exactly the reason I had begged him not to engage her. It's a trap she's set, and he's walked directly into it.

"Well at least I could produce a baby any time I _wanted_ to." She looks at him, satisfied. "Unlike two boys."

And now it's Curt's turn to be taken aback. But … how could could she know that this is a particularly sore spot for him? She couldn't! And yet … knowing Mandy … a surge of fear goes through me at this moment, at the thought of the level of 'research' she might very well have done on Curt, or had someone do, in order to find something, anything, everything, big and small, to use against him, to royally fuck with him, to hold over his head.

Curt recovers quickly, speaking calmly, with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"Well, don't look at me; _christ_, I'm _not_ fucking you again."

Could a part of him actually be _enjoying_ this?

She speaks casually, completely ignoring what he said.

"Oh and Curt, just so you know, because Brian wouldn't have told you, you're literally the 3rd prettyboy trick he's taken down there in the last year–"

"–Bollocks!" I shout, leaping in my seat, not wanting Curt to believe it even for a second. "You don't know a _single_ _bloody thing_ about me !" … before realizing, Christ, I've broken my own rule: don't let her know your weak spots. She'll play on this one relentlessly, now.

She pats my hand and speaks to me calmly, like a child.

"Daahling, aren't you, ah, _protesting_ just a bit much here?"

"I haven't been to Ibiza _once_ since you and I were there last year, and you know it."

"I thought you just said I didn't know anything about you?"

Ahhh, she is a master. My mouth opens and closes, flummoxed and flustered.

"And are you absolutely _sure_ about that, Brian? Don't you think you should at least be truthful about this with your little lover boy here, if not with me? Phillipe–?"

"–Phillipe was _Paris!_" I spit, embarrassed, agitated. "One bloody _weekend_ in Paris, and nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

"_Nothing_ _more!_ He wanted to _diaper_ me!" I snap, mortified at the memory. Curt bursts out laughing. "So will you _please_ fuck _off!_"

"Oh my daahling," she purrs, speaking to me like her pet. "I'm so sorry. I must have Phillipe mixed up with that other lovely dark haired boy from, where was it? Madrid! What was his name?"

I'm practically twisting in my seat.

"Diego," I blurt under my breath, wanting to annihilate her. Diego, the tall steamy brooding mess who, after buggering me senseless for a night and a day, announced that I wasn't his 'type', and would I _please_ leave before his wife got home.

"Yes, of course! You were in Spain anyway, so–"

"–I did _not_ bring him to the house! I have brought _no one else_ to the bloody house!"

"Okay," she smirks. "If you _say_ so."

I'm panting and sweating. I despise her for remaining calm while I've lost it. I despise her for doing what I knew she would do; she learned it from her trial lawyer brother: Plant an idea, a seed of doubt in someone's mind, a wedge, it doesn't matter in the least that it's a lie, it will do the work _for_ you, it will, no matter what- niggle away, fester, divide.

"Thanks for looking out for me, Mandy," Curt pipes in, brightly. "It means the whole fuckin' world to me to know you're on my side."

She turns to him.

"Well, you know, I always _do_ have a soft spot for Brian's little charity cases."

"Fuck _off _!" I shout.

"I think you have more than a soft spot for me, Mandy," Curt deadpans. "In fact I think you're hot for my ass."

She laughs sarcastically.

"Please don't make me ill."

"No, no, I think I'm onto something here. It explains a lot. I think you wanna fuck me. For _real_ this time."

She makes a noise indicating disgust.

"No, that's okay. I wouldn't wanna pick up any diseases."

"Moot point! I'm completely clean. In fact, up til two days ago I was a virgin."

"Uh huh."

"I was!" He looks over at me. "Right, baby?

Oh god. A pet name. _That_ will drive her crazy.

"Er well, _yes_," I blurt awkwardly.

He continues enthusiastically. "Brian _personally_ popped my cherry! And we've spent the last three weeks having _the_ most incredible sex- _all_ over your house! In your bed, over your dresser, and um, over your bathroom sink, and up against your fridge, down in the jacuzzi, in that big clawfoot tub, and then, oh my god your _shower_- those fucking hand-holds are_ amazing _!"

"Is that so," she mutters, trying to sound disinterested and bored.

"Did you know that Brian and I not only broke your kitchen table, the really expensive custom one you guys picked out- literally snapped the motherfucker in two, but we squeezed ourselves into that tiny closet in the hallway and fucked and sucked our _brains _out in there; this was just a coupla days ago."

"The closet! How fitting!"

"Ya," he talks right over her. "I thought I was gonna fuckin' _die_ it was so good." He looks at her, deadpan. "What do you like better? Fucking, or sucking? Because Brian–"

"Fuck OFF!" she snaps suddenly.

I'm practically giddy watching her lose composure. He continues, regardless.

"–Because _Brian_ prefers sucking, while I'm more into rear end action, I guess. Did you know Brian bought me underwear?"

"I don't _give a shit _!" she snaps, but he won't stop.

"… Cuz I usually don't bother. In fact, 99% of the time I was naked in Ibiza. Swam naked, ate naked, walked around your house naked, sat on your couch naked, fucked my _head_ off in your bed _stark_ fucking naked, christ knows. I'm naked underneath my pants right now. Did I tell you Brian bought me a bike?–"

She shouts.

"–Shut the fuck _up_, degenerate _sleezeball_ !"

Curt stops dead. He speaks calmly.

"Wow, I mean, that's, like, pretty _personal, _don't you think? Not to mention pious and completely ironic, coming from somebody who has a goddam _orgy_ at her house every week."

I resist the enormous guffaw that is on the edge of my lips. I look over at him, sigh and feel myself relax. He can _totally_ handle her, and not only that, it's terribly _entertaining_- why did I have any doubt ? He's maintaining his composure _and_ the upper hand, all while rubbing her face in the most deliciously uncomfortable visuals imaginable. He is _so_ much more than she bargained for and my insides are singing.

She turns to him. Her voice is steely.

"So you're a big fan of Lou Reed's, huh?"

"Yep."

"Do you know what the difference is between you and him, though, Curt?"

He shrugs; he smiles at her through his teeth.

"I'm prettier? Is this a trick question?"

She laughs.

"No. The difference between you and Lou Reed is, he might've been a dirtbag junkie at one point, like you, but at least he's revered and _respected_."

"Aaahh," he responds dryly.

I snap.

"Shut UP, Mandy"

She ignores me, continuing to look Curt right in the eye, who glares back at her.

"Any other differences I should know about?" he asks calmly.

"_Stop it_," I attempt to interject, but am ignored.

"Yes," she answers him with certainty. "Unlike you, Lou Reed isn't low enough, isn't _desperate_ enough to grovel around unashamedly leeching off of someone more wealthy and famous and successful."

"Will you SHUT–", I snap.

She continues, talking over me, her voice intensifying.

"– Lou Reed hasn't risked Brian's career and reputation distracting him and making him lose focus and _wasting_ huge blocks of his time, for example, swanning off and doing _nothing_ for 3 straight weeks immediately before Brian's _very_ first crack at producing, all under the bullshit guise of being his lover."

Woah! Jesus fucking christ!

"STOP IT!", I spit angrily. I'm pouring sweat.

"Is that so," he asks, sounding bored.

"Yes. Did you know, Curt, that Brian hasn't written a _single_ piece of music, not one single bloody _note_, since the very first time he laid eyes on you?"

I'm squirming a bit here. It's true.

"I'm pretty bewitching," he replies dryly.

"Six months of losing focus," she continues, "six months of completely ignoring his career, in a business where you absolutely _cannot_ afford to do that."

"Ya, I get it," he says, sounding _very_ bored, "Brian's career is in the tank because of me, even though he and I are in the papers every single fucking day."

"The _gossip_ pages!" She snaps.

"No," he shakes his head, voice rising. "Listen to me: I could clearly give a rat's ass about Brian Slade. What I wanna _know_ is the difference between me and Lou _Reed. That _is fascinating."

Please, no. Please, stop. I can't take this. I'm shaking, from nerves, from stress, from the terrible, mile-thick tension in this car.

"Okay, well how's this: Lou Reed hasn't spent the last dozen years of his life flailing about, in and out of rehab and hospitals he's absolutely petrified to be in, desperately trying to forget the fact that he spent half his childhood_ blowing his fucking brother_."

Oh god. My head is going to implode from the pressure. Mercifully, at this moment the limo pulls up to the curb in front of her flat. I go for the door handle, absolutely desperate to leave this car, but find that the lock is engaged. I throw my hand at it, pulling up on it but in my haste and desperation, my fingers repeatedly slip off. During these few horrible seconds, she continues speaking, calm and sinister, and lays this one on us:

"Also, far as anyone knows, Lou Reed was never gang_-_raped_._"

The air is sucked straight out of the limo.

The out and out, horror I feel at this moment … So devastating, so completely wrenching, so _obliterating_, that my mind momentarily cuts out on me … like the way I imagine a brutalized child's does as he splits himself up into different personalities- the truth being too literally awful to bear.

_How_

_can _

_she _

_possibly _

_know ?_

_How_ could she have gotten a hold of information that only three people in the entire world even _know_ about, two of them being right in this car? Jim would _never_ have told her! Would _never_ have betrayed Curt or told _anyone_! So _who_, then? _How_?!

I'm stupid with shock. I can't move. I can't possibly turn my head- I won't be able to _bear_ the look on Curt's face, the shock and humiliation that I know is right there now in his eyes.

Meanwhile there is this dead, horrified, withering silence … which only serves to tell Mandy she's won, she's flattened us, she's had the last devastating word.

My mouth goes to open, but I can't think of a single thing that could possibly have the impact, that could _possibly_ compare to _this_ sickening a direct hit. I'm furious with myself for not somehow anticipating this, for not preparing Curt, for not _protecting_ him.

Out of this bleak desperation … Curt speaks. His voice is low, almost a whisper.

"Do you actually think that you can hurt me, Amanda?" Oh god, he's used her full name- _she_ _hates_ _that_. "Do you actually imagine for a second that you can tell me things I already know about myself, and somehow hurt me with them? Didn't your _research_ into me give you a clue as to how far gone _nuts_ I am? '_Damaged'_ ?"

I look. His eyes, I'm relieved to find, are clear and focused. He reaches and, with breathtaking calmness, removes a pack of cigs from his breast pocket, turns it upside down, gives it a pat, takes one out and holds it between two fingers as if we are sitting outside at a cafe.

"Well, yes, of _course_," Mandy offers sarcastically, "It's well known you're a psychotic _freak_–" … but Curt speaks right over her, voice lowered, looking her dead in the eye.

"–_Yes_. Psychotic enough to be _well_ fucking beyond the point where a lightweight like _you_ could possibly hurt me, dig? That's the beauty of growing up suckin' off your brother." He smiles, which is so unnerving given the subject matter. "That's the beauty of getting electrodes jammed into your temples a hundred times- at your parents' request. By the time you get around to being gang raped, believe me, you're completely immune to petty, vindictive little games played by pampered, jealous housewives who've been leaching off their husbands for five years."

"_Fuck_ you–" she blurts.

"–No, fuck _you, _Amanda–"

"–Stop calling me that!–"

"–You're _consumed_ with jealousy–"

"–Not jealousy, _disgust_!–"

"–You're an embarrassment–."

They begin shouting.

"–_I'm_ an embarrassment?! _You're_ a fucking _lunatic _!–"

"–Ya, but at least I'm not a _slime_ ball _groveling_ around trading blow jobs for _dirt_ !–"

"–No, just for _smack_! How many hundreds of times did you do _that_ ?!"

Oh my god. Oh my god.

There is another sickeningly loaded, tense pause, after which, he laughs bitterly.

"Wow. _Wow_. You are _really_ into me, huh? Doing all your twisted little _research_, all your _investigating_. You're not consumed, you're _obsessed_. I'm mortified for you."

She spits through her teeth.

"_Listen_ to me, Curt, because I'm only gonna say this once. If you think you have any sort of a future, with Brian, or with this organization, or even in the _music_ business, I've got news for you. Your reputation sucks. _Nobody_ wants you around. _Everybody_ recognizes you as Brian's little experimental folly–"

I jump in, seething.

"–That's not true!"

She ignores me. Her eyes are glued on him.

"–Everybody sees you as his little_ fatal mistake. _The_ infatuation _of the_ month _who, unlike all the others, is too much of a fucking _burnout _to recognize that he's overstayed his welcome, that his shelf life expired about five _fucking_ years ago_." _

I grab her upper arm and spin her roughly round her seat long enough to shriek in her face.

"Fuck you! That's total and utter bullshit!" …

Before Curt yells out loud, angrily.

"_I_ am an _artist _! _I_ can write music and sing my fucking _ass_ off! _I_ can _play _like an absolute _motherfucker! I _can draw a fucking _crowd_ and _completely_ electrify it- _completely_ _rip people's heads off !_ What the fuck can _you_ do, Mandy? Huh? What can _you_ do of _any_ value at _all_, that can't be taken away ? Do you have a _single_ talent other than slithering around on your belly like a _snake,_ _fucking_ with people?"

Her eyes narrow. Her voice begins as a whisper, but quickly escalates into a shriek.

"If you think I give a shit what you think of me, Curt, you're stupider than I thought. I am _not_ gonna let you continue to _fuck_ _everything_ _up_, do you understand ? You are the _biggest, costliest, _most_ idiotic_ _liability_ we could _possibly_ have taken on, the _hugest_ drag on the ticket, the worst _fucking_ news, the worst yesterday's has-been, NEVER-fucking-been _fucking_ news that Brian has _ever_ let himself become _infatuated_ with, which believe me, is saying a whole FUCK of a LOT, so there is NO _POSSIBLE_ _WAY_–"

He turns away from her in order to open the car door, and as Mandy moves toward his direction, still shouting at him, he turns back suddenly and grabs her head with both hands, pressing her back into the seat and kissing her, at length, for real and quite hard, judging from her reaction, which is to fight and punch and push back against him.

It's so sudden, so crazily and completely unexpected, that I jolt in place. I can't figure out if I want to laugh out loud, or kill her.

Just as quickly, he releases her with an audible 'swach', and then … proceeds to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All this sexual tension between us," he offers with a shrug.

I resist the urge to burst out laughing. This uncanny ability that he has now twice shown me, to completely diffuse an extraordinarily tense situation, to disarm any attackers, leaves me tingling and giddy, and more than a little in awe. I feel absolutely triumphant, if still completely shaken and utterly unnerved by the entire experience.

"_Motherfucker_!" She shrieks. "Fucking _faggot loser_!" She climbs over me, red faced, furious, and dives out of the car, walking quickly towards the building's entrance, ripping the door open and bolting inside.

We each exit the car. I turn and look. The confident, giggly, victorious face I'd expected to see isn't there. Instead, he looks freaked and staggered. Oh my god, I want to bawl my eyes out. It was all a show- he _was _hurt. My heart plunges straight into my gut. I approach quicky and caress his face. I whisper.

"I'm so sorry, my darling angel. I'm so sorry. If I could've broken her neck, if I could have twisted my heel into her face, I would have."

He tilts his head slightly downward as he goes to light his cig and I can see that his hand is shaking. He takes a very long drag and looks off, running his fingers nervously up into his hair, speaking softly, voice trembling.

"How the fuck did she know, Brian? How the fuck did she find _out _?"

Meaning the rape, of course.

My throat tightens. I feel so extraordinarily impotent.

"I don't know," is all I can offer.

"All I can think now is she's told everybody. She's fucking told everybody! And the _press_ is gonna pick it up." He looks down at his hand. "_Christ_, I'm shaking like an idiot."

He looks up at me. His eyes are panic-stricken.

"Brian, what the fuck am I gonna do? I'm telling you right now, this is freaking me out really bad. I absolutely cannot handle it. If this gets out–"

I grab his elbow.

"–Listen to me, Curt. She hasn't told anyone; the press, or anyone."

He snaps.

"_How can you possibly know that _?!"

"Because I know her!–"

He shouts over me.

"–_If you know her so fucking well, how come you didn't know she was rifling around in my past_ _like this–!?"_

He looks off, eyes wide, twice as freaked now, blathering.

"Who the fuck _told_ her?! Some orderly at the _hospital _? Somebody at the meth clinic? What is she, talking to _dealers _in Detroit ?! Paying off my old _tricks_?! This is gonna completely eat _away_ at me!"

I touch his shoulder. I feel so, so awful. I want only to hold him, but I stiffen. I have to bring him around.

"It doesn't matter."

His head swings. He shouts.

"_What the fuck do you mean it doesn't matter _?!"

"Curt, please. You _have_ to believe me about this. Right now we don't know how she found out, but we will- I'll make _absolutely_ _sure_ of that. The reason it doesn't matter is, _she will not tell a soul_."

"How the fuck can you _know_ that ?!"

"Listen to me. I have lived with Mandy for 5 years, and known her for 8. There is nobody in this world who knows the ins and outs of her twisted little mind better than I do, and if there is one thing she is singularly consistent about it is that she _never_ does _anything_ that doesn't benefit her directly. And I'm telling you right now, she would _not_ benefit in _any_ way from talking. That was _not_ her purpose in telling you. Her purpose in telling you was to gain your shock and your fear of her, of her power, to fuck badly with you and make you wary of her, and to freak you out enough that she drives you away. _That is her only goal-_ she wants you _gone_ from the picture, obviously. Talking wouldn't help her case at all, and in fact would hurt it."

"Waddayu mean? _How_ ?"

"Think about it. Credibility. She would lose the little good feeling and credibility she has with the few people who still take her seriously. People would be disgusted with her for spreading such atrocious stories, and more importantly, _no_ one would believe it ! It's too extreme, _and_ everyone knows she's seething with jealousy and has it in for you. She can't _afford_ to tell anyone. It would make her look ridiculous and pathetic and desperate, and believe me, Mandy would _never _let that happen.

Even if … just for argument's sake, even if she _did_ tell someone who actually believed her,"

He throws his head into his hands and sways. I continue quickly.

"_Which won't happen, Curt._ I'm just speaking hypothetically here. Even if that were to happen, _you_ would _instantly_ have that person's respect and admiration for having _survived_ such a thing, don't you see?"

He looks down, agitated. I pull his face back towards mine.

"You don't believe me? I'm not done yet. The press- do you think I don't know everything there is to know about the press by now? They would _never_ print such a story, first off, even if she went to them. They'd never be able to verify it, firstly, and they wouldn't want to risk being sued, and this is aside from the fact that they _all_ know Mandy and so none of them would even _bother_ trying to verify it- they haven't believed a word out of her mouth for a very long time now. They know what a bullshitter she is, what a con artist, and they would immediately recognize it as a jealous spurned wife thing, and completely dismiss it out of hand."

He looks off again. I caress his hand. He doesn't speak for a long time. When he finally does, his voice is soft, and haunted.

"Okay, maybe you're right, maybe she won't talk, but it's still completely mortifying to know that she knows, Brian. I still have such a huge amount of shame about it."

My gut plunges a mile. He's never said such a thing to me before. God it's just devastating. I touch his face and whisper tenderly.

"You shouldn't."

"I can't help it."

"It wasn't your fault."

He takes a long drag and then exhales, slowly shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter- I wish it mattered. You never get rid of it, completely. You just …" He looks off. His eyes are drawn. "Right now I feel like crying and screaming and throwing up my guts and killing somebody. _That's_ how it makes me feel."

My heart is splitting. I caress his hand.

"I'm so sorry, my angel. I'm so sorry. I have such a deep hatred for her right now, I can't tell you." I step into his gaze. "And such a deep love for you."

His eyes meet mine.

"Will we ever be free of her, Brian, of your whole scene? Will we _ever_ be able to actually make it work?"

I stare blankly back at him, stunned at the question. We have painstakingly mapped and planned out an entire future together, our whole lives- just the two of us, living relatively normally as a couple, and he still has doubts about this? Are they real, something that has been building in him for a while that he hasn't let on about, or merely the product of the terrible stress brought on by tonite, coupled with general exhaustion and jet lag?

I force myself to sound unfazed, as if the notion that things might not all work out hasn't, in low moments, ever crossed my mind. Thankfully, as I speak, I can feel my own fears about this dissipating.

I hold tightly to his hand.

"I know Mandy, absolutely inside and out. She will be shown the exit, and she _will_ disappear, not without a fight, but she _will, _Curt. It doesn't unfortunately mean she won't be a right horrid cunt in the meantime, it doesn't mean she won't fight to the death, like a drowning woman does, but afterwards, she will be _gone_. I promise you. And as for the rest, I know things seem a bit shaky right now, but starting tomorrow we'll throw ourselves into the work, and then be together throughout the tour, with no else around but our bands- no Mandy, no Jerry, no entourage, no hangers on- they'll be _strictly_ barred. And then, straight away after the tour, we going back to Ibiza – to _our_ house, to _live, permanently_."

I take his hand, kiss it, and hold it by my face.

"We _will_ make it work, my love, I absolutely know it in my heart. There is just no question about that. Besides," I smile. "I don't have any choice- I'm completely blinded by you; you're all I want, you're all I live for."

He ponders this a moment, looking down, looking off, taking a few puffs and blowing them sideways. Even in the tension of the moment, as I feel myself hanging on his next word, on what it will say about how he will choose to react to her, to everyone, to everything, and what that will mean to us, to our lives in these next few weeks and beyond, I can't help but notice … in his fright, in his vulnerability and raggedness, in the weariness and exhaustion behind his eyes, in the way the soft shadowy light of the London moon falls across his face … how staggeringly beautiful he is.

His eyes finally meet mine.

"You're right." He sighs softly. "We'll be okay."

Never have three more beautiful words been spoken. I exhale the breath I've been holding, and lean forward to wrap him in a deep hug.

"Yes, we will, my angel. I love you, _so_ much, more than anyone in the universe. That's all that matters."

He whispers into my neck.

"I know, my baby. I love you, too."

We part. We kiss once, quickly, sweetly. And again. It feels triumphant. It feels extraordinarily beautiful.

He stands back a moment, and looks straight up at the high rise building before us.

"Let's go meet Lou Reed."


	69. Arrival

In the lobby, we await the lift, or 'elevator', as Curt knows it. He looks at me.

"_Lou fucking Reed_ is upstairs. Like my nerves aren't shot enough."

I touch his face.

"Don't be nervous, my angel. He might be nervous to meet us."

"Brian, come on. The guy doesn't know my name."

"Don't be ridiculous. Every musician of any quality knows your name, and your music."

"Ya, that's why I sell millions."

"Stop it, Curt. Velvet Underground sold, what, a hundred and fifty records? And you bloody well know _their_ name."

He looks down and shrugs.

I take the cig from his lips and pull on it myself, to help calm my nerves.

"We'll go up." I kiss him quickly and whisper. "We'll meet Lou, then go home–"

"–With him," he laughs.

I look at him crooked.

"Is he … ?"

Curt laughs nervously.

"I don't know. There are rumors."

"Wow, I had no idea. Well … regardless. I have no interest in sleeping with Lou Reed." I smile. "Only with you."

He grins in my face.

The little bell dings. We hold hands and walk forward as the lift door opens.

"What the fuck do I say to him?"

I laugh.

"You think _I_ know what to say to him?"

Curt puffs and paces nervously.

"Remember this is a private lift. When the door opens, we'll be inside the flat."

"Shit, I forgot. Christ, you _are_ rich."

* * *

><p>A soft ding goes off, the door parts, and we exit into a small receiving room. Music plays at a medium volume in the background, something screechy and discordant which as far as I can tell, features a chorus containing the word 'motherfucker'.<p>

Curt chuckles. "I used to know those guys. MC5. Haven't heard this in years."

"MC5, yes I remember that name. Detroit, right?"

"Yep. Great band."

We round a corner. In the room are about a dozen or so people, none of whom I recognize, standing about, sitting on the floor or couch, smoking and talking and doing lines off the end table. Great. As far as I can tell, there is no sign of Mr Reed.

Jim quickly approaches and hugs Curt. "Hey man!" And then me. He reeks of beer and stale cigarettes. "This is like my third party today." He grins wickedly at both of us. "How was your, uh, _weekend _?"

"Fine," Curt replies, curtly, while I fidget.

"Gotta say I'm a little disappointed, my man," Jim says wryly.

"Oh ya? Why is that?" Curt asks.

"Brian can still walk."

I blush but can't hide a small smile.

"Shut up, asshole," Curt replies before lowering his voice to a whisper. "So is Lou Reed really here?"

"Ya," Jim responds, "he just walked into the fucking kitchen."

Curt and I exchange glances and whisper over each other.

"Should we wait here–?"

"–Won't it seem too …?"

Just then two scrawny, hairy, bedraggled creatures walk by. Curt turns and calls in their direction.

"Hey."

The two men approach, laughing and hugging Curt. I have no idea who they are but I immediately notice their resemblance to Jim in dress, manner and attitude, and so I'm not surprised when Curt introduces them as the rest of his band.

"Brian, this is Ron, and James. The two other assholes in my group."

"Oh," I laugh, nodding my head in their direction. "Hi."

"Hey," they both reply, before turning to Curt. "Lou Reed is into you, man," Ron says.

Curt harrumps sarcastically. "Yuh."

"I'm not fucking kidding, Curt. He said he was a fan." Ron looks at me. "Of yours too, Brian."

"Of _course _he's a fan of Brian's, idiot, he asked to _meet_ him- this is _his_ place."

"Curt, I'm not fucking shitting you, he–"

Suddenly we grow quiet, for Mr Lou Reed has entered the room, led by Mandy, who directs him towards me. Wow, what do to? The author of so many singularly great, gritty, frighteningly original rock songs is standing right here in my living room, looking me dead in the eye, if one could _see_ his eyes behind those dark shades. Surely one of the most nerve-wracking moments of my life.

I approach and extend a hand. He wears black jeans, a wide leather belt, a dark shirt, and funnily, black nail polish, same as Curt. He is taller than I'd expected, slim of build, slightly older than Curt and I by a few years, and strikes me as just extraordinarily … _cool, _albeit a bit on the sinister side; certainly intimidating; very very New York.

"Brian." He shakes my hand. My god, he said my name. "Good to meet you."

"Hi, shit, _likewise,_" I manage to respond. "Welcome to London, Lou." Shouldn't I be calling him Mr. Reed?

"Thanks. I was in town, and I thought it might be cool to hang a bit. I was really intrigued by your album. The whole Maxwell Demon thing. Some fantastic shit."

"Wow," I laugh nervously. "I've been intrigued by your whole _career_. We both have."

He laughs. I turn slightly, and gesture.

"This is Curt Wild, as I'm sure you know."

Lou nods and extends a hand.

"Wow, ya. I'm a very big fan, Curt." He laughs. "'I Wanna Be Your Dog', that song completely blew my mind."

Curt seems startled.

"Shit, really?!"

"I wanted to cover it, actually, but we never got around to it. I'd still like to."

"_You_ want to cover one of _my_ songs?!" Curt laughs.

"This is funny," I add, "because Curt and I were just discussing me doing a few of yours. 'White Light', right Curt?"

"Ya, just last week? We're very big Velvets fans."

"Ya, the Velvets were a good little band but we just couldn't fucking get off the ground. It was pretty fucking depressing. I feel like you and I are in the same boat, Curt. We both make good motherfucking music that nobody ever hears."

They each laugh. Yes, I do feel slightly uncomfortable here, being the million selling pop queen, standing here with these two kings of credibility and coolness.

I gesture towards the couch.

"Sit down. Do you need anything? A drink?"

"No, I'm all set. I can't stay long." He pats his breast pocket. "Can I bum a cigarette off you guys? Curt, you don't happen to have any American ones on you, do you? Mine's back in my luggage."

Curt quickly whips one out of his pack of Lucky Strikes. Lou sighs contentedly and pops it into his mouth and I watch as Curt leans close and lights it for him. I could swear I notice, in that brief moment, Lou glancing up at Curt and giving what appears to be a _Look_.

Rumors, anyone?

* * *

><p>I sit down opposite the two men and am suddenly struck out of the blue with an extremely vivid, very clear and detailed picture: Lou and Curt, finding themselves alone out in the hallway. Curt returning from downstairs, having forgotten something in the limo, and Lou eying him. Curt, a bit freaked, in awe of him, not entirely sure what to make of this. Lou approaching and before Curt can react, silently and rather matter of factly fingering and then lowering his zipper. Curt, in shock, having no idea what to do, looking off nervously, knowing anyone could exit the nearby elevator, or open a door at any point.<p>

Lou dropping and taking him. Curt, in disbelief, not looking, simply leaning his head back against the wall behind, resisting the strong urge to reach out to the person doing this to him, to initiate the contact that says, I know you're there.

Lou, fierce, immediate, to the point, bringing it to a conclusion in under two minutes, and then standing up, expressionless, watching Curt's flushed face, tucking him back in, zipping him and then walking wordlessly back to the door.

Curt, panting softly, in complete disbelief over what has just happened, not exactly sure how to feel, and later that night … spilling the whole bloody story to me.

Me, inexplicably, completely understanding, feeling not one iota of the raging fury/jealousy I normally would. Why? It's Lou fucking Reed! The legend, the ground-breaker, the Warhol accomplice, the Original. What, was Curt supposed tell Lou Reed, 'no' !? It was something that had to be dealt with, perhaps, that had to be gotten out of the way, a clearing of air, a breaking of ice, before they could move on and be friends, contemporaries.

As a side note: Lou is male and not female, and so hence, I can compete.

* * *

><p>Back from my fantasy, I observe Lou as he leans back and inhales. Lord if he isn't the physical embodiment of balls-out fucking <em>cool<em>, with that aura he gives off, I don't know what is. Impossible not to be affected by it. One part sexual, or at least, certainly perverted, three parts ominous/threatening. You get the keen sense that if you cross this guy, your body will be floating up the East River by morning.

He turns and addresses me.

"So how is that studio, Brian? The one you're using tomorrow? I've wanted to record here before, but I never know where. The one place we tried in '66 was complete shit."

"Oh, no, this is top of the line. State of the art, as I think they say. Where do you record in New York?"

"Well, there isn't any good place, anymore, really. All shit. It's part of the reason I'm in town- scouting out new studios, maybe. I'm between contracts, as usual." He grins at Curt, who responds,

"I know the feeling,"

Lou continues, addressing Curt.

"So you're doing it tomorrow? You got it booked all week?"

"Ya."

"But not solo- you got your band with you, right?"

"Yep. I doubt I'll ever be solo."

"I'm going solo with my next album. Cut out all the bullshit."

Curt glances up at Jim, who looks on nervously.

"I got a great band; I'm lucky."

Lou laughs. "Shit, I know, you _are_ lucky. That guitar player … _christ_, that is some _mean_ shit."

"Ya, James is incredible. Blistering."

Curt looks up.

"Lou, that's James, there, and Ron, and then Jim, my bass player."

All three nod in Lou's direction but seem to cower back slightly, saying nothing.

Lou nods back at them but turns and addresses Curt solely.

"'Funhouse', man, that album blew my mind."

Curt seems flustered by all the attention and praise.

"Well shit, Sister Ray, Lady Godiva, the _banana_ album, that thing … 'Heroin'!, I mean … That song redefined how I heard music, I swear. It still scares the shit out of me!"

All laugh.

"Ya, I'm really proud of that song. I mean I knew it would never get airplay in a million years, but, y'know, when you've got nothing, you got nothing to lose, y'know? It demanded to be written." He looks at Curt "Where did you hear it, do you remember? It got zero airplay."

Curt looks up at Jim, who answers.

"Curt and I were roommates at the time, and a buddy of mine turned us onto the New York stuff. We were in Detroit, see."

"That's right. I forgot you guys were mid-west. Holy shit," he laughs. "The Velvets played some decent shows there back in the early days, out in the middle of fucking nowhere, but nobody came. Not a soul."

Laughter.

Lou addresses Curt again.

"I saw that film of you in Cincinnati that time."

"Huh?", Curt asks.

Cincinnati: June 13th, 1969, what is now recognized as an iconic moment in rock history that happened to be captured by a local tv crew. Curt stood upright on top of astonished audience member's outstretched hands, smearing and smearing the remnants of an entire jar peanut butter across his bare chest, before taunting the crowd and hurling himself forward into it.

"Peanut butter!" laughs Lou.

Curt, myself, and his whole band, burst out laughing. No one else in the room has any idea what's so funny.

"You gotta be shitting me; you saw that?"

"Ya! It was on tv for some reason once. I'd never heard of you guys. I was lying around my place with the tv on in the background and I look up and suddenly there's this lunatic rubbing himself with peanut butter."

Laughter and hooting.

"How did you get that shit _off_ of you !?"

Curt grins crookedly.

"I had help."

Indeed. Three girls.

"It was bizarre," Lou recalls, "but really fucking cool- it blew my mind, because you were pissing off the crowd _on_ _purpose_. I'd never seen that before in my life. Egging them on and throwing big blobs of peanut butter at them."

Laughter.

"I'd smeared about as much as I could, and then I didn't know what to do with the rest," Curt laughs.

Lou smiles.

"Well the thing I liked was, see the Velvets pissed people off _unintentionally_. We rubbed people the wrong way without necessarily meaning to. _You_ guys acted like you wanted to start a fucking _riot_. Fantastic."

Curt shrugs.

"People just … I can't stand looking into a crowd and people are just _standing_ there like assholes. I'm _pouring_ out my guts up there, I'm shitting myself and bleeding and screaming and having a fucking heart attack, and they're barely looking."

"People are stupid." Lou responds flatly. "Always remember that. I've been in this business since 1960 and the thing I've learned is to focus on fellow musicians. If we can please and inspire each other and blow each other's fucking minds, that's where it's at, man. You've certainly blown mine."

I look. I can see in his eyes, in his face, the mix of shock and pride combined with slight embarrassment at receiving such high praise from one of his heroes, right in front of a room full of people. I can tell he wants to jump straight up and down shouting, and I absolutely can't wait for the moment when we can talk about this later.

Lou finally turns to me. "So you're producing? That's pretty cool."

_Fuck_. Lou Reed thinks I'm doing something cool!

"Ya. My first time. I hope to do it justice."

"It's a big responsibility. I don't think I could do it." He takes a drag and exhales it upright over his head, exactly the same way Curt does. "You know what I wanted to ask you, Brian? 'Eight Line Poem', that's sort of …"

I smile.

"Stolen from you, yes."

Laughter.

"Well, I was gonna say, Velvets influenced, but that song struck out in particular as just being a great tune, Velvets or no. You do all your lyrics?"

I grin proudly.

"Yes."

"Do you write, otherwise?"

I shiver. Lou Reed is interviewing me.

"Write? Like in …?"

"You know, poems or short stories or whatever."

I laugh. "Shit, no, never."

"Because I think you're really pretty good. Oh, fuck, 'Andy Warhol', _great_ tune." He smiles. "It keeps coming to me out of the blue, all the shit I wanted to ask you. I really dug the way you go high pitched with your voice- that was just so unexpected, and really fucking cool. And I have to tell you, Andy absolutely loved it. Did you ever meet him?"

"Me? No. I just … admired him from afar."

"Well let me tell you, Andy's a big fan of both of yours."

"No shit," Curt blurts. "That is heavy."

"He soaks up culture, and he really thinks you guys are like the godsons of the Velvets, or something. He thinks you're both doing really important work, seriously. You know, like, for the future of rock n roll."

Curt and I look at each other and laugh.

"Wow," Curt responds. "Heavy. 'Rock n Roll' that _song_, by the way!"

He glances over at me. My smile is a mile wide. We were just discussing the song between ourselves a few days ago, and now here we are in front of it's author.

"That is just such a fantastic tune, Lou. It never loses it's power. Not one iota."

Lou smiles. "Thanks, man. I guess we're all fans of each other's work. Who are you listening to these days? I'm curious."

"As far as new shit? Not much. I'm big on the Dolls, I guess."

Lou grins.

"Man after my own heart."

"Do you know those guys?"

"No, but I've seen 'em a couple of times. _Loud_ motherfuckers."

We laugh. I address Lou.

"We were just in Spain, and we caught the Spanish version of the Dolls."

"Equally loud," Curt laughs. "Messy. Pretty fucking good, though."

I smile.

"They grabbed Curt and brought him up on stage to sing, and then he dove straight off."

Laughter.

"Jesus Christ, I forgot about that," Lou responds. "What the fuck is that _like_ ? How do you not break your motherfucking neck ?"

"Well, I've had a few scrapes, believe me. Bruises, and actually I fractured my ankle once. But, I don't know, it's just, y'know, the fucking _adrenalin_ rush you get when you're up there, you know? It sorta drives me to do it. I get into this completely _other_ head space, like I don't fucking know where I am. You feel sort of invincible, and invisible, maybe. It's hard to describe."

"I guess I just wish I had your balls."

Oh, the ultimate male to male complement. I'm so, so pleased for Curt.

I turn to Lou.

"So would you wanna stop by the studio or anything? It would be a kick."

He checks his watch.

"I really can't- I gotta go, in fact. I gotta catch the red-eye. Fucking cheap bastard manager."

We laugh. We stand.

"Do you need a lift?"

"No, I'm all set, thanks."

It suddenly hits me. We should document this.

"Mandy?"

She steadies the camera. Curt stands between Lou and I, his arms initially at his sides, holding the pack of Lucky Strike smokes in his hand, then at the last second for some reason, he squashes the pack partially into his mouth and throws his arms round each of us as the flash bulb goes off.

I turn and shake his hand.

"Smashing. Fantastic to meet you. Anytime you're in London …"

"Well, you guys are out on tour in a few weeks, right?"

Curt turns and shakes his hand and answers.

"Ya."

"When are you in New York?"

Curt looks at me. He's clueless about the schedule. I answer.

"Early next month."

Lou takes Curt's cigarette box and scribbles something on it.

"Here's my number. Definitely call me when you're in town. Definitely."

"Oh," I respond, "you'll have to come to the show. We'll comp you."

Lou smiles and makes for the door.

"Cool. Look forward to it. Gotta split."

I hold open the lift door open.

"Okay, great, fantastic. See you in a few weeks."

"Bye," Curt waves.

* * *

><p>The door shuts, and the room erupts, Curt's bandmates in particular.<p>

We turn to each other, smiling from ear to ear. His eyes are alive.

"_Lou fucking Reed_."

He grabs me and kisses me. I can see Mandy in the corner of the room, watching. I take hold of his head with both hands, and kiss him back, passionately, fiercely. The familiar churning begins in my belly.

When our lips finally part, we keep our faces close, breathing, saying nothing for a moment. I raise my eyes to his. I whisper.

"_Home_."

Curt nods, and turns to sternly addresses his bandmates as I pull him quickly along by hand.

"9am. Don't you _dare_ even fucking _think_ about being late or I swear to christ I'll strangle your goddam asses."

Jim calls after him playfully.

"10am, no problem!"

Laughter.

Curt calls back after him.

"Jimmy I am castrating _you_ first thing in the morning, just so ya know."

Jim shouts back, high pitched.

"Personally? Oh goody!"

Truly, they never stop discussing their dicks.

I hit the button for the lift.

Curt runs a hand over his face, clearly bone tired, and overwhelmed by the day. The bell dings, and we walk inside.

"I cannot believe this day," he mutters wearily.

I run my fingers over the stubble on his cheek, and up into his hair. I whisper.

"And tomorrow, my angel, we begin our new life."

The slowest, most achingly sweet smile spreads across his face … causing a terrible corresponding tingle to flutter down my spine. I trace a line across his ear, over the muscle at the side of his neck, and along the soft form of his lips … disbelieving the whole way that it's been less than ten hours since we've made love.

"Why is it that I can never get rid of it?" I inquire.

"Rid of what?"

I give him a look.

"The _ache_."

He sighs. He looks down.

"Baby, I'm wasted. _Beyond_ wasted."

I continue stroking his face.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He looks at me.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes, of course … but …"

I grin crooked.

He looks down again.

"I can barely keep my eyes open. I can barely fucking _stand_. I'm collapsing the second we walk in the door."

You may try, my love, you may try, I think to myself, but I'm afraid at this moment we are past the point where appeals to my mothering instincts will outweigh the low, simmering boil of my baser ones.

Actually …, I've never seen why one can't have both.

I clasp his hand. I kiss him softly. I whisper.

_"I'll take care of you."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** For anyone who hasn't seen the famous, iconic photo, and would like a visual of what I was portraying here with the photo that Mandy takes of Brian, Curt and Lou, (with Curt shoving the Lucky Strike cigarette pack into his mouth at the last second) ... google image "Lou Reed, David Bowie, Iggy Pop". Seeing as the character of Brian is based in part on Bowie, and Curt on Iggy, and seeing as the two met Lou Reed in real life (back in 1972 - around the time Bowie produced both Reed's commercial breakthrough album _Transformer_, and Iggy's masterpiece _Raw Power_), I thought it would be fun and fitting to breathe some life into and tell the story (or at least my fictional take of) that famous photo.

Also, for anyone unaware, the peanut butter story is absolutely real and was even caught on film. Youtube "Iggy Pop, Cincinnati, peanutbutter."

* * *

><p>PS: Feedback! Writers are fed and nourished with feedback! We (and our stories) starve and wither without it! <strong>If you want more of this story<strong> - the only thing I ask is for your thoughts on what you've read. Without an active readership, there isn't much reason to keep posting here. (Thanks to those that do review. It obviously means a lot to me. Please keep it up!)

* * *

><p>RIP Lou Reed<p> 


	70. The Seven Minute Solution

The doors split, we exit the lift, and the building, and approach the waiting limo. My driver, Ian, opens the door for us. I lean into his ear.

"_Take your time_."

He nods quickly. I slide in first, then Curt, and the door is shut.

_"Holy Christ",_ he suddenly blurts.

"What is it, my love?"

"_Lou Reed. _ Did we _actually_ just meet _Lou Reed?"_

The car lurches forward. I turn myself sideways, plant a hand in the middle of his chest and point a knee between his. _"Yes." _I reach upward for a grip point in his hair and pull his face forward for a steamy kiss as I finger his belt.

His hand covers mine. I stop. He whispers.

"Brian, I am _really_ spent."

"I know," I respond, "It's just a few minutes."

"To the house?"

I nuzzle into his neck.

"_No_."

"Brian," he protests softly.

"_Shhhhh_."

I begin yanking the lower half of his shirt straight up out of his trousers.

"But your _driver_."

"The two compartments are completely sealed off."

"But people will _see–_"

I tilt my head up and kiss him fiercely while slipping both hands up inside his shirt to stroke and squeeze at his nipples, drawing the first breaths from him. My hands then slide downward to disengage the holy trinity: buckle, belt, and sacred Top Button, officially silencing any dissent.

Yes. Incredible; we did just meet Lou Reed. Jaded as I may generally be, I'm not immune to the thrill, terror and disbelief of such things. Meeting one's idol, having one's idol wanting to meet _you_ - it's impossible to take in, to properly process.

Especially when one is, at this very moment, entirely consumed with Curt-lust.

Which is due, in part, I'm sure, to the extra frisson created by the prospect of something we've never done before: semi-public sex. What can one get away with in the back seat of a limo as it makes it's way through the streets of central London? I see myself, us, from above, and then, from the perspective of a passing car. And it's fucking _hot_. These windows are tinted after all, but not _that_ tinted. The very notion that one could peer in and watch, even for a moment; that extraordinarily delicious, though unlikely possibility of _discovery_, of being caught engaging in explicitly naughty, forbidden, not to mention _illegal_ public activities …

* * *

><p><em>Glam Rockers Caught in the Act! <em>

_It is reported that late last evening a suspicious London bobby apprehended glam rock singer Brian Slade and his lover, the famous heroin addict Curt Wild, for engaging in lewd, graphic, vile, disgusting and unnatural acts whilst traveling round the city in the back of a limo. Unnamed sources indicate that Slade was seen exiting the rear of the squad car shortly after entering it, grinning ear to ear, followed by the dazed, flustered, panting young bobby. All charges were promptly dropped._

* * *

><p>As promised, it will only be a few minutes. It has to be. By my rough calculation, it will take seven minutes to get home – <em>if<em> we take the long way round, which I rather unsubtly instructed my driver to do, and which he damned well better.

* * *

><p>I, predictable as ever, drop quickly to my knees, spread his, and before ripping open his trousers, instinctually lean in - it can't be helped - to rub and press my mouth and face directly into the material, something I've never done before and, at the moment, I can't imagine why. His hands go to touch me, then suddenly back up and away, in surprise. It feels so base, so filthy and wicked, to burrow in with jaw and nose and lip and cheek, to inhale his scent and prod at him in such a hungry, animalistic manner.<p>

Instantly the mildly faint outline behind the material becomes more prominent, which of course, provides a more clearly defined target for me to toy with and tease, if I so choose, and I do: cruelly flicking a finger, over and over, directly into the tip, sending miniature shock waves through his body.

_Flick_

Shiver

_Flick_

Moan

_Flick_

Curse

_Flick_

Writhe/moan/curse.

* * *

><p>"You're hard," I announce.<p>

I've never quite understood it, but for some reason one of the hottest, most effective types of dirty talk is simply stating facts.

_"Yes,"_ he instantly agrees.

I cup and stroke and tease the outline.

_"Fucking hard."_

_"Yes," _he shudders.

_"A minute ago you didn't want this, Curt, and now you do."_

He grabs my head, impatiently.

"You sexy fuck," he hisses, "You _made me want it."_

He goes to kiss me but I shake myself loose and dive downward, baring my teeth to bite along the outline - small but nipping little bites so that he feels it, jumping slightly in place each time and making that insanely hot, signature Curt Wild half slippery slithering writhe.

Somewhere in the process, he exhales it:

_"Baby_."

Oh _fuck_.

The word. The magic one.

Okay. Yes. Eveything's quite clear, now.

I stop dead, sit upright and reach inward, past the material, watching his half-lidded eyes follow my hand as it carefully pulls him from behind the material.

I glance._ Oh_, the object of my heart's affections, the apple and yummy tart-cake of my eye, the center of my whole bloody universe.

I drop, and in one smooth motion, carefully swallow the world's most beautifully formed piece of human anatomy.

* * *

><p>He gasps and writhes further, the flesh quickly solidifying as I twist and bob in rhythm to some internal metronome.<p>

_Swivel, suck, swirl_, is my mantra. Swivel, _suck_, swirl. Swivel, swirl, _circle_, swivel_ suck_.

So many delicious combinations. So many beautiful sounds that I have the proud and profound honour of pulling from him. (Although I can tell he's trying to keep himself muffled, so that my driver won't hear, which is just so adorable.)

Lick, suck, kiss, suck … _dive dive dive dive dive _… bob, suck, kiss, suck, _bob bob bob bob bob_

_Gasp, moan, flutter, twitch, curse, writhe, swell …_

Aaah, the sheer bliss, the symphony of the oral arts, of which, yes, I am a master.

* * *

><p><em>Suck<em>, swirl, swivel, _suck_, bob, bob, bob, _suckswirlsuckswirlsuck … _

_gasp, writhe, pitch, squirm, fidget, moan, curse …_

_Dive dive dive dive dive dive dive …_

_Plead, curse, pant …_

I stop. I look, admiring this fresh, glorious hard-on I've birthed, this beefy, deep red, spit-slick cock, which feels as heavy and full in my hand as if it were made of lead.

_"Baby,"_ he moans again.

Good God. A tiny, under the breath utterance and yet there is _so_ much in it: turmoil, vulnerability, defencelessness. A plea for mercy.

As well as drooling, blinding lust.

I could marry him, alone, over such a word. (Had I not already done so ...)

* * *

><p>With the lightest whisper touch, I brush upward, over and along him, watching the undercurrent, the wave, ripple through his body ... as a droplet of pre-come trickles forth.<p>

_Sweet bloody Christ._

It's the terrible war inside me, always, with oral and Curt: Make him explode _now_ - put an end to his beautiful sufferings, or savor it, draw it out and teach him a good, long, sensual lesson?

As one cannot possibly choose between such insanely delicious prospects ... one simply doesn't.

* * *

><p>I lean in, wet my lips, and press the fullness of his flesh up into his belly, licking a slow, wide upward line, from sac to tip; five, six, seven, eight times, hungrily encircling and engulfing each end, each time I reach it, calling and calling to the warm bed of semen within, and pulling the breath, the sweet, insanely sexy exaltations, straight out of him - my driver be damned.<p>

Midway through, I can help not, given such a scene, but _leap_ upright, grab a firm hunk of hair and positively _devour his mouth_ …

'Tis then that it happens.

With a grunt and two firm hands on my shoulders, I am soundly and decidedly

_pushed _

_back_

_down_.

Oh lord. _The_ moment in a bottom's life. The one he longs, waits, and lives for.

Having been given license to go wild, I do, plunging downward, sinking the head, inhaling the shaft into the inner reaches of mouth and throat, while, to drive the point home further, nudging a knuckle into the perineum, straight into that fantastically sensitive cluster of nerves behind his cock.

Which causes him to _jolt _in place as if he's been electrocuted, which is so sudden and jarring I almost leap backward in surprise, myself.

Yes, he is right on the razor edge, and as fate would have it, at this exact moment ... the limo slows and come to a complete stop.

My christ, we're not home yet?! A quick sideways glance reveals no, just stopped in traffic … with a vehicle directly adjacent to us, windows open, occupants oblivious, talking away.

Curt, panting madly, cracks open a lid and looks over anxiously. It's, again, so sweet, so adorable, this shyness, this sudden bit of fear in his eyes, he who strips himself naked on stage in front of thousands.

And here is it, realized, the most terrible delicious moment, the wicked forbidden-ness of our risky backseat dare come to fruition.

_"Can they see us, do you think?"_ I can't help but taunt in my sexiest whisper. _"Can they see me sucking you off?"_

Before he can answer I …

_plunge _with all my might, slamming downward on him ... and ... immediately it's too much. His hips hurtle forward and then, breath held tight in his chest ... he shouts out a great hoarse cry and _explodes_ like a gun shot, three distinct and separate times, shaking and jolting with the effort, gasping for his life.

* * *

><p>The adjacent car speeds off. The limo lurches forward again, and I remain in place, nursing, kissing and caressing the slowly softening flesh as he pants away, parched and withered; fully, perfectly and rightfully spent.<p>

Finally and with terrible reluctance, I wean myself off and rise to him ... head swimming ... madly in love and impossibly aroused.

I also feel a surge of guilt- he truly was exhausted, he asked me not to, only to have me force this absolute monster of an orgasm from him, exactly when he's at the end of his tether.

Sorry, but also not, I nestle my face into the dampness of his neck, lay a protective hand across, and hold him til his breath quiets.

* * *

><p>The limo turns and there is a slight bump as we enter the driveway - <em>my<em> driveway - then a pause as the gates open, before we pull forward again.

I whisper.

"_Welcome home._"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong> Okay guys, yet another Brian-on-Curt oral scene. Are you sick of them? Have they grown old and tired by now? Be honest.

I guess I can't help myself. IMO Curt is just so eminently suckable, and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who of course plays Brian in the film, possesses such a set of outrageously full, stupendously pretty lips that I can't see him, er, Brian, not wanting to put them into very good use on a regular basis. _But_, I think for Brian, it's totally about the healing/rescue thing, as in: tormenting poor Curt - dragging it out as long as he can stand it, bringing him to the edge, only to back off and do it again, (a practice called, indeed, "edging") to the point of almost making Curt sorry he got up that day - only to 'rescue' him via delivery of an orgasm on that toe curling, brain obliterating level that Curt has maybe never experienced before, pre-Brian. Brian does consider himself a master at it, and he takes pride in this, but also tells himself that one's mastery of a craft _does_ tend to require regular, focused, and very intensive practice, and so ...

My hope is that you can feel the love at the close of the act, here, that this isn't just total porno stuff. Brian is heartbroken as always that his all time favorite thing is "over", but the intensity of their bond and the electricity between these two has also just been reinforced and strengthened - has just been ratcheted up hugely, _again_ - for the billionth time, and when Brian climbs up into Curt's lap at the end, watching up close the mayhem and mess he's just caused in him, feeling the rasping breath struggling out of him, and lays a protective arm across til it returns to normal, I like to think his heart is bursting at that moment. That he knows in his marrow, truly in his soul, that there is nothing he wouldn't do for this man, and mostly, that it would be impossible for him to love Curt more than he does. (Is it okay to admit that I genuinely find that thought quite moving? Is it possible to have true lovemaking, devotion, adoration, concern, fidelity and committment disguised as a raunchy, graphic blowjob?)

Thanks as always for reading, and especially to those that review. You are very sweet in what you write and I have to say, it really touches me.

PS: Can you spot the little Ewan McGregor reference I slipped in, early on?


	71. Home

Ian opens the car door for us and stands aside as we slowly, wearily exit, and I'm thankful indeed for my dangling shirt tails. Curt's face and neck are sweaty and pink, with lids hovering low - he can barely keep his eyes open. As Ian moves towards the boot to retrieve our luggage, I quickly wipe him down with my sleeve.

We clasp hands. As Ian comes round, I address him.

"This is Mr Curt Wild. He will be living at the house now."

Ian nods in his direction.

"Mr Wild."

Curt fidgets a moment, then blurts in a small, hoarse voice.

"Um … hi."

Ian moves into the house. Curt stops suddenly, looking straight up.

"_Shit_."

Said in a way that suggests he is impressed, but also I sense, completely spooked.

Stupidly, of the many, many times I've pictured his very first glimpse of what is to be his home, _our_ home for the next 8 months or so, this was not something I'd anticipated. He'd been so tickled and giddy over the beach house, after all, but certainly compared to there, this place is like Buckingham Palace, complete with uniformed servants.

"I know it's a great deal grander than the Ibiza residence," I explain. "But that's just a vacation home. This house is very old and and was built for a duke, so it's very large." I whisper in his ear. "But it's just temporary, remember."

We move toward the steps. I have an arm across his back, to steady him, as he's practically wavering on his feet.

"One flight up, my love, and we're to bed, straightaway."

We enter. I blink. I'm suddenly extremely conscious of ... everything. The place is drowning in wealth and opulence, in gold leaf and finery, and now that I'm seeing it through Curt's eyes, it all seems so gaudy, so ostentatious. So wasteful and grotesque.

I realize it's another way that knowing him has changed me- I don't have an interest in such things anymore, nor the time or patience.

Sigh. Already, I can't wait to get back to Ibiza.

Curt, meanwhile, is busy rubbernecking over things he's never seen before: the grand marble staircase, imposing Eqyptian crystal chandelier, massive overframed paintings, giant matching Victorian sideboards, plush antique persian rugs, 18 foot ceilings, fluted columns, etc. etc., all the way down to the antique umbrella and fancy English gentleman's hat stand.

I, by contract, feel about two foot tall, and shrinking. Here he has spent his entire bloody life scraping away, first in a trash heap of a trailer, and later, sleeping on pokey spare mattresses and/or with whomever could provide him a meal or a hit, staunchly refusing the whole way to compromise or water down his art, even if it has meant continuous poverty, all while I have been living the life of Caligula, simply by virtue of luck, good timing and of course, sleezy management.

"_Shit_," he says again, as we are ascending the stairs. "You _own_ this place? All this … _stuff_?"

I flush. God, what an insufferable poseur I am.

"Well … most of it came with the house." I turn. "I know it must look ghastly to you."

He looks at me.

"Ghastly?"

"Well, yes, all the …" I look round, I sigh, "… _everything_."

"Brian, it looks like the fucking king of England lives here."

"Yes, exactly. I'm sorry about that. The last thing I wanted is for you to feel uncomfortable."

We reach the top of the stairs.

"Uncomfortable? I'm not uncomfortable, I'm … blown away." He laughs. "This place is sorta like Henry the VIII's biggest wet fucking dream."

Ian approaches at this moment. I'm only hoping he didn't hear that last sentiment.

"Sir, the bags are by the bed."

"Thank you, Ian."

"What time tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," I stumble a moment. The thought that we are actually getting up in less than 7 hours to begin work on the album seems incredible. Didn't we arrive in England a week ago? "Um, yes, please pick us up at 8:30, Ian. Thank you so much."

He nods, and exits.

Just then my head servant approaches. What is she doing up at this ungodly hour?

"Oh, Penelope, you shouldn't have waited."

"My pleasure, sir." She glances quickly at Curt.

I gesture.

"Penelope, this is Mr Curt Wild. He will be living at the house now. Please see to it that he's treated as such, and not a mere guest."

She nods at him and gives him a quick, polite smile.

"Of course, sir. I trust you had a pleasant time away?"

"Um," I look briefly at Curt, "yes, actually. _Very_ much so."

"Very good, sir. And you will wanting breakfast in the morning?"

"Oh, um, yes … 7:30 will do. The usual."

Penelope curtsies, and leaves.

Curt looks at me in disbelief.

"'The _usual'_?"

"I know," I whisper, shrugging awkwardly, trying to smile. "It's just …"

"How many people work here?" he inquires.

"Eight."

Oh god, how much of a pig can I be?

"But most are grounds people," I blurt. "The rest live in the carriage house next door."

"There's another house?"

"Yes, but ... it's … it's just the ... it's where they boarded horses in the 1800's. It's basically like a small-ish, well, actually quite sizeable, guest cottage."

I turn, purple faced, twist the massive brass door knob on one of the two ultra tall, heavy double bedroom doors and push against it, pulling Curt along behind by hand, and … we enter the home's enormous master suite for the first time.

Oh god, if he thought the _rest_ of the house resembled Henry the VIII's …

* * *

><p>We stand on the threshhold a moment, myself, disbelieving my eyes- it all looks so foreign to me now. I swear I barely recognize a thing, and yet I've lived and slept here for over a year, and as recently as four weeks ago, completely oblivious to the twists and beautiful turns my life would take …<p>

Curt, is wide-eyed and open mouthed over the sheer breadth of the room, (which, last I recall measured upwards of 37 feet) … and everything in it: my massively oversized bed with it's imposing handmade imported antique oak and cast iron four poster frame; various overly ornate and original Victorian pieces (art, end tables, statues, vases, bureaus, chests, decorative washing sink, etc); floor to ceiling windows with antique handmade lace, and silk and heavy velvet gold drapery; 14 foot fireplace and extravagant hand carved mantel; the veranda overlooking the endless back gardens, fountains, outdoor statues … _etc_ _etc etc._

I look at him.

"It's a bit much."

He blinks.

"It's … just … _unbelievable_. I … I guess I can't really take it in."

I turn to him and grasp both hands.

"Well … it will all be going up for sale, anyway." I lean in for a quick kiss. "Let's get to bed, my love. Huge day tomorrow."

"Ya," he responds, voice gruff and worn. He reaches for his suitcase.

"Don't bother. We can unpack tomorrow."

He plops himself down on the edge of the mattress and runs weary hands up and down his face.

"Tell me again," he says, "I'm serious; did we really just meet Lou Reed?"

I smile. I lean against his bent knees. _"Yes."_

"And did he really say all that?"

I laugh.

"You mean, about being a _fan_ of yours and wishing he had your _balls_, and wanting to cover one of your _songs_-?"

His face pinches and he holds a hand straight out.

"-Fuck! Stop! I _can't_ be hearing this."

He looks at me, semi-freaked, but in a good way.

"It can't be _true_, Brian."

I smile.

"Of course it's true. Not only were there several witnesses, but, do you think Lou Reed is stupid, or that he's insecure? You think he bothers to fawn over people he doesn't _actually_ like and respect? He took your packet of smokes and _wrote out his_ _phone number_."

He looks off.

"It's obvious," I continue, "Lou Reed is a Curt Wild _fan. _And why shouldn't he be? I keep telling you, you're brilliant. A ground breaker if there ever was one."

He looks back again.

"Lou Reed is a_ God,_ Brian._ You're _a God_. I'm _a total_ bum."_

I smile. I caress his cheek.

"A bum who's about to be on all the magazine covers."

He squints in disbelief.

"Come on. Even if that happens, it'd only be because _you_ produced the album-"

"-And _you_ will have written all the songs, lyrics, and arrangements, and played, and sang _lead _on every track. I predict you'll have a hit on your hands."

He looks off again, half scoffing, half wondering ...

"It's just all so _nuts_. My whole life right now. _Everything_." He looks up and around. "I don't understand where the hell I _am_."

I cup his cheek.

"You're _home_, my love."

He smiles in disbelief, and shakes his head.

"Yes," I continue. "I _know_ this place is nuts. Honestly, Curt, even _I_ can't believe I live here right now - for the first time, I'm finding it all pretty putrid - but remember, again, _it's all going away."_

I turn his face towards me.

"You know why? Because this isn't _us_. That I know, now, for sure. _Ibiza_ is us. We will live there simply, and happily. But in the meantime, we're _here_, and, y'know ..." I look around. I smile. "It's really not so awful."

"No," he smiles, "huge and crazy fancy, but no, not awful, I guess. I'm sorry. I'm just ... overwhelmed. By everything. I don't understand how any of this could be happening to me."

I cup his cheek.

"You don't have to understand it, my love. Sometimes good things happen to those who _richly_ deserve it, and have in fact, earned the living _shit_ out of it."

This garners me a half laugh.

"Come on," I continue. "Enough pondering and fretting. We're both jetlagged and exhausted. Time for bed. And, your eyes are completely bloodshot, so I'm getting my drops."

He shrugs, jams a hand into one of them, and then lets out a huuuuuge, long, head back _yawn, _like a great lovely polar bear.

"Damn you. How many times have I told you? Don't rub them. They'll itch all night."

I reach for and undo his shirt buttons, then his belt.

He says nothing. I look. His eyes are shut. I wait a beat and … yes, there is that familiar telltale half snore- he's asleep, sitting up.

I softly caress his cheek and bend to carefully remove one shoe, then the other, but not carefully enough as mid-way, his eyes pop open.

"Lay back," I whisper. He does, lifting his hips slightly so that when I pull on the bottom of his trousers, they come free.

I dash off for my drops and when I return seconds later, he's dead to the world, stone dead, snoring away with both legs dangling off the edge of the mattress.

I look a moment, staving off my own exhaustion, for there is this sublime vision, this ravishing, glorious, ethereal vision of a creature laying half crooked and stark bollock naked in my bed, my own actual full time _London_ bed, just as I'd pictured thousands of times since I first laid eyes on him 5 months ago … this _week_, I realize. (Our anniversary!) And tomorrow I am to begin producing his album. If this isn't a crazy fairy story - if he thinks _his_ life is unbelievable ...

I strip, climb up onto the bed, and manage to gently slide his limp form several feet up the mattress without waking him.

I pull the blankets up over us, nuzzle my face into his neck, and within seconds, pass out.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_ So there, a sex-free chapter! It seems I can do them, once in a while! Now, is this disappointing to the reader, or is it a relief ...?

Just have to confess that I do love Brian mothering Curt, even though I know it's kind of ridiculous, in that it's miles from his character in the film, who was a right selfish bastard. That's the thing with my story, though - it's largely the story of Brian changing as a person - of his love for Curt inadvertently changing him. Certainly this chapter is all about him running headlong into a very concrete change in himself. He can no longer even stand, or _under_stand, his own opulent lifestyle. The pre-Curt Brian I think reveled in his riches and felt he was entitled to them and constantly sought out more. Post-Curt Brian is so deeply in love with this no-nonsense, no-bullshit, minimalist/purist guy that Brian can't ever look back. He sees his old self through Curt's eyes and he cringes.

Curt is still Curt, meanwhile - pretty much unchanged. I love him too much to change a single thing about him, frankly.

Okay, the little Ewan McGregor hint in the last chapter was the phrase "long way round" - when Brian, early on, was discussing that his limo driver had better take "the long way around" when they were driving home. _"Long Way Round"_ is the round-the-world motorcycle-trip documentary that Ewan and his friend Charlie Boorman did which was a huge hit on PBS here in the States about ten years ago. It's highly recommended viewing, btw, if you've never seen it. Wonderful series.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note II:<strong> Thanks to the reader who pointed out in a review that I was making a sly references to Henry the 8th, seeing as "JRM" (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), who plays Brian in the film, also played Henry the 8th in _The Tudors_. Believe it or not I actually totally forgot! I'm not kidding! I get so caught up in Curt, because Ewan is my guy, and, I confess, I know very little of JRM, but yes, that works really nicely in a sly kind of way in this chapter. Throughout the story I've made sly references and at times done stuff like used Iggy Pop's actual words for Curt to say (way, way early on, when he's talking about his dislike for The Beatles and he used the phrase "I like music that roars!", which is a direct, early quote of Iggy's, because it was just so perfect for Curt.)

There will be more little winking references in coming chapters as I begin doing research into the producing and recording of Iggy's 1973 album, one of my all time favorites, the blisteringly brilliant, _"Raw Power", _for the next chapter, or one after that, in which Brian produces Curt's album. I'm hoping to have actual bits about the actual recording, and quotes from reviews, and press interviews (of which I don't think there were many as Iggy really was largely a fringe, underground guy at the time).

PS: Do me a favor: for a visual, google image "Iggy Pop Raw Power" to see the album cover. Really - go ahead and do it - because it's SO worth it. It's an iconic shot, and one of my all time favorite album covers - of young, shirtless (of course) super fit Iggy in gold lame pants with that platinum blonde hair (which he bleached only after meeting Bowie and which Curt, in the film, bleaches after meeting Brian). Iggy is as you can see is covered in lipstick and heavy eye makeup, which is just so badass and inexplicably hot.

BTW for anyone who cares about musical influence and seeing the streams of it from generation to generation, Kurt Cobain's all time favorite album was _Raw Power_, I just recently learned, and that was why he bleached _his_ hair blonde - in order to look like how Iggy looked on this album cover.


	72. Morning Of

I'm lying here trying to make it out, the whateverthefuck shit, along the edges of the ceiling. It's some sort of fancy plaster carving all the way around this house-sized room, with shapes that look like weird faces, or leaves or flowers or maybe weird old gargoyle-y spirit animals, or something.

In the middle of it all, there's this huge, incredibly elaborate painting that some poor bastard had to somehow do while hanging upside down from the ceiling, apparently, like back in like 1888 or something, which shows what looks like a very intense biblical scene, like maybe the ascension of Christ, or some such shit, or at least it's some Very Important Bearded Dude who's popping up through the fucking clouds while a bunch of onlookers in white robes hang out and watch.

Next to me there's this small, incredibly intricate lamp with a glass shade that resembles the stained glass you see in a _church_ - probably Tiffany, I'm guessing - or some royal family equivalent. The thing sits on an antique looking shiny marble top night table with what looks like solid gold drawer pulls. Next to it on the floor is one of those classical lifesized porcelain sculpture statue things from like Greece, or something, of some hot, ripped, figleaf wearing naked dude, probably done by Michelangelo. Of which there are like _three_ in this room, but it would take you a half hour to find the other ones, fucking place is so big.

And how 'bout this fucking bedframe? It must weigh 4000 pounds, with those giant, thick, heavily carved - probably _hand_ carved - posts as big as tree trunks, and then this insanely elaborate gold and cast iron headboard that maybe Marie Antoinette would've found a bit much.

Not to mention the fireplace as wide as a car, the windows as tall as a house - where in fuck'd you get curtains to cover 'em? Can't exactly pop down to Sears - and yet there they are, in heavy gold velvet, probably made by Queen Elizabeth's private seamstress.

Okay. Enough. Gotta stop gawking at everything. It'd take all day - all _week_ - and make you nuts in the process. And yes, as Brian said, it's all going away. But in the meantime, just suffice to say, waking up in Brian Slade's bedroom is like waking up in the fucking Sistine Chapel. Or Westminster Abbey. Or the fucking _Louvre_, or something.

* * *

><p>When I first woke up - a sharp backwards snore had caught in my throat and snapped me out of my slumber - holy shit, I panicked, looking around going, well, what fucked up hotel is <em>this? <em>Totally couldn't place it for like 10 long seconds - which is a long time, if you think about it - then went backwards through my completely fried, zapped out brain ... okay: Ibiza - Thursday, _wedding_; Friday, Saturday, Sunday - _fucking_; then superlong flight; London - _Heathrow_; Mandy - _rape;_ Lou Reed_ - fan; _limo_ - blowjob_; here.

Won't focus - _can't_ - on whatever it is that Mandy might or might not know. Okay, she _knows_. That's clear. Which is so catastrophically unnerving I could easily lose my mind thinking about it - the woman sort of terrifies me, truth be told - but I can't fucking afford to be distracted by her and the power she may or may not have over me. Just don't have that luxury right now.

And I sure as fuck can't focus on having met Lou motherfucking Reed, and what he might or might not think about me or my music - just too fucking intense!

Nor do I really have time to process the fact that I've just gotten _married_, for fuck's sake, let alone that my ass/rape demons have essentially/apparently been cured. (Don't wanna tempt fate by daring to confirm either way ...)

Because, see ... if there was ever a time - in my life - that I needed to concentrate and clear my stupid idiot brain, it's fucking _now_.

Why?

Are you shitting me?

_I've got an album to make._

* * *

><p>Mind you, I've made 'em before. But every one I've made - okay, who am I kidding? There's only been two - absolutely almost didn't get made at all, and once made, which, both times, were nightmare battles in and of themselves, almost didn't then get released, and then once finally released, basically sold like two copies. I'm almost <em>not<em> kidding. Ya, they each caused a bit of a stir in the underground music press which, admittedly, went a bit nutso, but what good is a positive review in some stoner rag when the album sells a half dozen copies? Then you show up in that city as part of what laughingly passes as a "tour", only to find that your band's name isn't even on the bill, that there's been absolutely zero promotion or mentions in the local press that you're even in town, _then_ you find out the very album you're there to push isn't even for sale in _any_ of the local record shops!

Ya, we got great reactions from the 10 or 32 or 132 people who would show up - people sorta go beserk at my shows - but again, can ya live on it? Can ya eat a positive review for breakfast, or pay your fucking rent with it?

So that, combined with my own admittedly horrendous (un)reliability and behavior issues, heavy/chronic smack addiction, and stuff like club fights - near riots, really - that repeatedly ensued when I would stage dive, for example, or berate the crowd (I can never help myself), or sometimes just when I'd be minding my own business _singing_ - I mean, that's what I'm there for, right? - caused what passed for any "manager" I happened to have at the time to quit, leaving behind reams - I'm talking miles - of unpaid bills, and then the record companies he'd conned into signing us would then almost immediately ditch us without any back pay at all. They'd owe us thousands ... okay, well ... hundreds, anyway, but would turn around and tell us we owed _them_ _tens_ of thousands, which is just laughable. Not because it wasn't true - they'd been stupid enough to front us the money to make the fucking record, after all - but because of the inherent ludicrousness in the very notion that myself or any of my bandmates could even possibly put together two red _cents_, let alone twenty thousand bucks ...

So if Brian's predictions are right - that my album might at least make _some_ money if only because his name is attached to it - the first twenty grand - _if_ it even makes that much, which seems like a ridiculous fantasy pipe dream - sadly, will literally go right out the window to my two and a half former thieving, cocksucking record companies.

So that, right there, is basically my entire music 'career' in a nutshell.

Pretty, huh?

* * *

><p>So how is it then ... how, on God's green earth did it <em>happen, <em>then, that I now find myself - me, the total bad news loser to end all losers - waking up, mind you, after a _three week all expenses paid first class vacation_ at a _beach _house in the _Mediterranean ... _how is it that I find myself wrapped now in silk sheets, in what is essentially Henry the 8th's bedroom, inside this insanely lavish million dollar London palace_, _about to make my third record ... which is only to be produced by the world's singularly, unquestionably hugest rock god superstar?

To whom, it should be mentioned, _I just happen to be married?_

* * *

><p>I hop off the bed; it's like twelve feet in the air so it's more like <em>jumping<em> off the bed. Brian's in the shower, I guess, and I might as well join him, but just then, just as I take a coupla steps, one of the giant bedroom doors creaks open and there's suddenly this young uniformed servant chick - the same one from last night - Petunia, or Priscilla or somebody - wheeling in a cart with an enormous sterling silver food tray on it.

Only problem being, I'm stark stupid naked.

At the last second, before, I hope, she sees my dick, I manage to dive for one of the hundred and fifty pillows lying about the bed and throw it against myself. So then with the pillow jammed up against my privates, I'm only advertising in neon flashing lights that _hey,_ _I'm standing here, naked._

_Great. Great first impression you're making on the staff, here, pervert._

She jerks her head away and immediately apologizes, as if she's done anything wrong, and then I feel like even more of an ass. Brian _had_ said 7:30, and a quick glance at the clock shows that she's right on time.

Then suddenly, thankfully, there he is, in his bathrobe, hair in a big high fluffy towel. Phew.

"Oh, thank you, Penelope." He points. "Right over there will do."

She wheels the cart thing way over by a small table and chairs situated in the middle of the giant 25 foot bay window overlooking the veranda overlooking the grounds.

She turns. "Will there be anything else, sir?" she says, eyes downcast, face flushed.

"No, but thank you. And, sorry, I should have mentioned it last night, but, knocking first, just to be sure, from now on, might be advisable."

* * *

><p>"Sorry," I say, as she shuts the door behind her.<p>

"My fault," he says, approaching and pecking me on the lips. "I know what a _nudist_ you are. Should've reminded you, you're less able to do that, here."

I shrug. "'S'okay." I grin. "I can handle it."

He sniffs my neck and runs a hand up into my hair.

"_Mmmm_. Why do you always look - and _smell_ - so amazing in the morning?"

I laugh.

"Brian, I'm a filthy fucking mess!"

'Filthy, _gorgeous_ mess." He kisses me. "How are you this morning, my angel? Did you sleep?"

"Like a frickin log."

"Oh, I'm so glad." He reaches for my hand. "We have such a big day. It's exactly what you needed."

"You?"

"Me too - slept the whole night." He grins. "But then I always do after ingesting your semen."

I laugh.

'Jesus, Brian!"

"I'm serious," he continues. "It's like a tonic. I sleep like a baby."

"Fuck, I'm surprised I've got any _left_ after this weekend, frankly."

"_And_ last night."

"And last night," I nod.

"Well," he says, taking a breath and raising a solo finger to my nipple. "Lucky for me, y'know, it doesn't run out, does it? Physiologically speaking, it's _continually_ being _produced. _So," he says, in a low down whisper, tracing soft, slow fingers across my chest, "my job as your husband, clearly, is to therefore keep you continually _drained_, shall we say."

And speaking of _filthy_ ... as he says this extraordinarily filthy, and therefore insanely sexy thing to me, he, oh god, licks those magnificent, full, fat, dark pink lips - slow and sensual, that brilliant, shamelessly talented tongue does its lazy swipe ... and when you love Brian's lips like I do - when you _know _'em and _want_ 'em in the way that I do ...

But wait, there's more. He does with them that sort of shift thing. They part slightly, change position just a hair, and stay that way, only this time there's a bit of a tooth jutting, too, slightly, coyly, just for a second, which bites into that ridiculously sexy, giant lower lip, before disappearing again ... and it's hard, no, _impossible_ not to be transfixed by the spell of these tiny but all-powerful sex signals shooting straight out of his face.

Next I know, those pouty wet things are jutting and heading straight for mine and I'm helpless to lean toward them and he's pulling on the pillow that I'm still inadvertently holding against me, pulling on it to move it away_, _and I'm positively giddy inside, laughing at my insanely great fortune at having married the one man in the world who has proven to be more of a horndog than even _me_ ...

But then against, believe me, _all_ of my instincts ... something makes me do it.

I grab onto the pillow ... and hold it in place where it is.

He stops. He backs up an inch, and looks at me.

We say nothing for long seconds before his face sparks.

"Right," he says, finally. "Yes," he nods. (I haven't spoken a word.) "Good._ Channel it into the record."_

* * *

><p>Okay. So it's true, then. Couples - people in love, people that are truly <em>it<em> for each other - can read each other's minds.

And what Brian has just read in mine - and made me realize, or at least, reminded me - is that somebody in my position, whose career and reputation is so utterly, wholly shot, somebody who truly hasn't a snowball's chance in all hell of reviving it, somebody who nobody in their right mind and certainly nobody in the entire music industry is willing to give a chance to ... by some miracle has been _given_ that chance, and so ...

Duh. _Don't fuck it up._

Meaning, what he and I have just mutually understood is that the _last_ thing that an out of control, rock and roll, cut glass and peanut butter smearing, stage diving, riot inducing garage punk like me needs when, against all odds, he's about to be stuck in front of a microphone again, and not just any microphone but a real deal grown up professional recording studio mic which both costs a fortune and picks up _everything_, is to sound in any way like what he is:

relaxed, sated, and blissfully fucking content.

* * *

><p>Over "the usual", otherwise known as a Full English Breakfast (cold toast, sausage, fried tomato slices, cold brown beans, eggs, bacon), plus piping hot black coffee for me, and strained foo-foo tea for Brian, we hash it out.<p>

"There are going to be arguments," he says all matter of fact as he sips his tea.

"Yes, Brian," I say in exasperation - we've only gone over this like 50 times. "I _know_."

I practically mouthe the next whole sentence back to him:

"We could very well have quite heated disagreements during the recording process."

Translation: _Boy, are we gonna fight._

"But we have to promise each other, not to take the disagreements beyond the studio."

Translation: _Get ready for nightly silent treatments._

"In the interest of marital harmony, I'm sure we'll work something out."

Translation: _ Angry-fuck fest._

"And while I'm brand new at producing, I've worked with the best, most in-demand producers in the business, and studied them carefully."

Translation: _Totally gonna rip them off._

"So, as much as I think - _know_ - that you're an original and a genius, I hope you'll be open to some of my ideas - nothing major - to maybe help widen your audience a bit."

Translation: _No, I'm not about to let you open the album with the sound of a big, loud belch._

"Baby," I say, "I know all this. It's cool if we fight. Like with not fucking just now, we'll channel that frustration and energy it into the album. It'll totally _benefit_ from the fighting."

"It doesn't mean I don't love you."

I squint.

"Don't be stupid. Of _course_ it'll mean you don't love me."

"Fuck _off!_" he laughs.

"And when you get all _Brian Slade_ on me, and have your prissy, hissy fits, and shit, I'll _totally_ hate your guts."

"Good! Excellent! It's all arranged, then. In the interest of artistic purity, it's my duty to throw tantrums, then, if I don't get my way?"

"_When_ you don't get your way. _Yes_. So long as I have permission to fuck up a recording, completely flip out on you, smash up the equipment, and storm out of the building while you tell me to fuck off from the second storey window."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's note:<em>** The last sentence an obvious reference to what happens in the film.

I do love writing from Curt's POV. He's just so much more fun - and freeing - to get inside the head of, than Brian, frankly. Do you guys have a preference re POV? Brian vs Curt? Just curious.

The bit about him hopping out of bed naked only to encounter the servant pushing a food tray I've had in my head for a good 6 months, or more. It's always satisfying to finally see on the written page what you've been endlessly crafting in your head.

"Cut glass and peanut butter smearing": In case a reader is unaware, in addition to Iggy Pop's infamous, actual peanut butter smearing incident of 1969, he was also infamous for cutting open his chest til it bled on stage. No one had ever done such an insane thing before, and Iggy did it numerous times. In another way that he influenced later generations of musicians - for good or ill - years later (1977) Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols, who was the bass player for legendary English punk band whose debut (and only) studio album is still one of the most brilliant things that ever was, totally copied Iggy and also cut himself with broken glass on stage til he bled. Oh, and Iggy also by this point had only 2 albums under his belt - brilliant stuff that didn't sell _at all_ and he also was chronically dropped by managers and record companies alike, and in fact at the time he met Bowie was without a record deal. (This is one of the things I love about the film - how closely they have Curt's story track with Iggy's - Brian having his management company sign Curt up and agree to produce his record is exactly what happened between Bowie and both Iggy and Lou Reed. Sorry, I do love my rock history maybe a bit too much, but then so does the film's producer, Todd Haynes, apparently ...)

I debated with myself about putting the last section (breakfast) into this chapter vs starting the next chapter with it, as it seemed the better ending was the section before - with Curt realizing that this is genuinely do or die time for him - that if an album produced by billion selling superstar Brian Slade isn't successful, that his career is definitely shot. So he therefore knows he has to truly _bring it_ - has to _kill_ - has to absolutely knock people flat on their asses and singe their ears off - and yet that type of music - that type of _performance_ (and anyone who has heard Iggy's _Raw Power_ - which I've been repeatedly listening to for inspiration - would call it a performance - a brilliant one) doesn't tend - one would think - to be generated by someone as happy, content, and at peace as Curt finds himself. So that is a bit of a worry, and dilemma for him. (You'll just have to stay tuned for how it all pans out.)

So why didn't I just begin the next chapter with the breakfast bit? I guess I want to jump straight into the meat - the recording of the album.

Anyway, there you go. Hope you enjoyed this one.


	73. Monday (Things That Are A Bad Idea)

Songs: _Penetration, Cock in My Pocket, I Need Somebody_

Fight #1: About _Penetration, Cock in My Pocket, _and _I Need Somebody._

* * *

><p>Okay, firstly, the very first line of the <em>Penetration<em> is _"__penetrate me",_ and it ain't a fuckin' metaphor. Can I help it if the first post-wildly-successful-ass-reaming song I wanna sing is a raunchy, very specific celebration of getting fucked?

Brian had asked me to maybe not _start off_ the session with this one, seeing as it kind of upsets Jerry, who had sure as hell and very decidedly _not_ been handed a song, nor lyric sheet, and who had already flown off the handle when he heard we'd engaged in exactly zero rehearsal, to now. My band had uncharacteristically arrived early, bless their hearts, only to spend the whole fifteen minutes bragging about how little sleep, and how much English pussy they'd been getting; how they had no clue which songs we were even gonna be recording, and that, oh ya, none of us had played together in several months.

Okay, not a great first impression – I mean, the very fact that a collection of low life dirtbags such as myself and my band were even getting to record again at all - let alone in the state of the art, top of the line super pricey studio like this one, you would think would've at least engendered some semblance of respect for the process in the form of, at minimum, basic preparation and practice, but what Jerry doesn't understand or appreciate is that my band ain't exactly classically trained to begin with, and, rehearsed or not, we are one super heavy, rip snortin', nitro- burnin', fuel-injected rock band that nobody in the world can touch. We could, generally speaking, eat any other band out there for breakfast.

But, the reality is, Jerry could give a shit. He signed me for one reason, and one reason only: at the insistence of his lovestruck superstar meal ticket. And then here I am whaling away into these high end microphones:

_I got a cock in my pocket, it's shovin' up through my pants, gonna whip it on you, honey, taste your blood, just wanna fuck, this ain't no romance._

I mean, come _on_! _THAT_ is rock n roll!

* * *

><p>Okay, with <em>I Need Somebody<em>, I mean, they had wanted something slow, right? Maybe even a love song, they said. Can I help it if I had the perfect little number, all slow and bluesy, only it happened to be a fucked up, wishful-thinking sorta love song to a trick, from back when I was peddling my ass?

Now remember, again, I kinda haven't written anything since Brian and I first met, so all of these tunes are reflective of me in my pre-he, smack-fueled state.

Not to sound like I'm making excuses. I _love_ this shit! Not only is it totally and completely kickass, it's some of the best, hardest, rawest shit I've ever written – and Brian agrees. And really, the crazy freedom of the subject matter is what made him sit up and pay attention in the first place. Had I been singing about angels and flowers, he maybe wouldn't've noticed.

("Not entirely true," he will later remind me. "It was seeing your performance on the stage in that field, that night. You, shirtless, in leather trousers, covered in oil and glitter, egging on the crowd and flipping them off and jumping through _fire?_ I mean, great _Christ.")_

* * *

><p>Fight #2: Which occurred earlier, seconds after we walked in the door, was brief, and doesn't so much qualify as a "fight" as an opportunity for Brian to show off his razor sharp tongue. It was immediate, in response to Jerry groaning and doing a slow eye roll over the sight of … our wedding rings.<p>

"Well hello, Jerry," Brian said, smiling through his teeth. "And yes, thank you for asking (he hadn't): but Curt and I _did_ have a most exceptionally lovely time in Ibiza. Now, just as a reminder, because it will have been weeks since I've told you this: _you are an arsehole_. _But_, one whom I _know_ knows which side his bread is buttered on."

Translation: _breathe a single word – a single syllable - about the wedding, and you're not only dead meat, but instantly out of a job._

* * *

><p>Fight #3: After a break for lunch, I accidently (I swear!) burped - loud - into the microphone, and jokingly but sort of not, insisted on keeping it in because it was perfect! <em>Right<em> on the beat! Then afterward, my timing kept being off. I got so wrapped up in the singing – I mean, on play back through these fancy high end speakers I sounded fucking _ferocious_! Like I've never heard before! Which completely blew my mind and proved so distracting and elating and unnerving that I kept fucking up and chiming in a half beat too late or too early without realizing it, repeatedly causing the whole thing to go off kilter, and I guess wasting a lot of tape, time and hence, money.

All of which eventually created a huge firestorm on the other side of the glass - a giant argument which I could see, but not hear.

It went on a while – long enough for me to light up a smoke and nervously suck it down to my fingertips as my band and I awkwardly watched.

And watched. Until I finally got them to flip on the two-way speaker so I could at least listen in.

There was Brian, of course, shouting and defending me, only to turn around, all red faced and pissy, look at me through the glass, and_ start telling me off._

"I think everyone understands that you're used to working in much looser and more spontaneous environments, Curt, but please bear in mind, this is the highest level, most sought after recording studio in London, hell, in the _world, _with a staff to go with it. So, much as it may appeal, we really _can't_ have you changing things unilaterally without at least warning us ahead of time. Our sound people, and especially our engineer, Ian, have to be properly prepared."

* * *

><p>Okay, I thought, red faced. I may have fucked up - though I was hardly 'changing things unilaterally' - I barely even know what that means - but Christ! Don't fucking talk down to me in that scolding tone like you're my fucking teacher <em>– <em>_in front of everyone -_ like I'm an idiot. Like I'm _six!_

It's one thing for the people who are ignorant of my style and my back catalog and what I'm about and what my audiences respond to to not get it, but for _Brian_ …? Instead of reading the look on my face and shutting the hell up, he went on, for about the billionth time, about 'expanding my appeal' and 'professionalism', and all that shit that makes me wanna puke, and it quickly got a little bit embarrassing cuz here we were both _yelling_, just the two of us, _at_ each other - the fight even spirally off into extraneous unrelated idiot mini-fights - _all while everyone watched._

Which, at another time, wouldn't've been a big deal, right? To argue with your music producer? I mean, whoop-dee-shit.

But how about when you're in love with him? In a serious, heavy duty, committed relationship, in fact, to the point where you're both freaking _newlyweds_ who are expected to go home with each other after this … ?

* * *

><p>And <em>then<em>, right in the middle of it all, to make matters worse, fucking _Mandy_ walks in.

Instantly I'm triply stressed and freaked cuz all I can think is, _there is someone who knows I was raped._ That's what she represents to me. And now here she is witnessing this ugly, embarrassing public meltdown, which undoubtedly tickles her no end, seeing it, I'm sure, as clear evidence that whatever 'relationship' we thought we had was a fucking _joke_ – along the lines of those Brian had had with his litany of "pretty boy tricks", is I think how she put it.

* * *

><p>Suddenly, without warning, at the top of his very impressive lungs, Brian's kicking everyone out of the studio –– <em>everybody, <em>staff, crew, my whole band - to the point of even physically shoving both Jerry and Mandy out the door before slamming it shut with shouts, threats, and curses.

* * *

><p>With the place empty, then, it's suddenly very quiet. I walk out of the sound space into the room on his side of the glass, seething over the whole thing – his instant, shitty reversion to 'businessman' mode, the taking down to me shit – I may be an asshole; I'm <em>not<em> an idiot - the whole ugly, uncomfortable, borderline humiliating public scene; fearful, to boot, that my one and only chance at making an album might be shot.

It's clear he's equally ripped at me for the fuckups, and for, in his mind, me somehow not taking this seriously (not true!)

Yes, okay. I know at minimum, it probably made him look bad – which sucks for somebody who has bent over backwards and pulled every string he can to bring on the most sought after, in demand people in the business - despite everyone's dire warnings.

It's not like I don't appreciate it, for fuck's sake. He _knows_ what it means to me. And it's not like I can't handle criticism, though I guess I don't understand the mega freakout over what to me was fairly minor stuff. And, it's only day one – am I not allowed to find my feet?

* * *

><p>So here we stand, he and I, pumped up, pissy and red faced – emotions right on the edge - looking at each other with daggers in our eyes.<p>

It's one thing to joke about fights ahead of time, but when you're deep in the middle of one - to _this_ degree - it ain't so funny.

* * *

><p>Neither of us wants to admit it, either, but this feels uncomfortably relationship-threatening, as well.<p>

We fought a lot in Ibiza, fuck knows, but somehow, this side of our wedding, a veins-popping public screaming match feels so much scarier - because the stakes are so much higher.

* * *

><p>At the same time, as I stand here looking into this face, despite, or perhaps because of the extremes of emotions, I can feel it as it happens.<p>

Even if I don't want it to- I _want_ it be the furthest thing from my mind - fuck knows it should be - somewhere in the far reaches of my brain … a switch starting flipping.

* * *

><p>"Don't pretend," he says, voice on a low boil, "that I haven't told you these things before – that I <em>don't<em> want to water down your music for fuck's sake; that I absolutely agree with the no rehearsal, spontaneity thing – I want you as fresh and raw as we can possibly get, _and_ you sound incredible! You have no idea. But I _do_ want to find a way for you to be heard by more people, Curt, and you know what _isn't_ gonna accomplish that? _Missing your cues _over and over, a lack of focus - particularly when the tape's rolling - and bloody fucking _burping!_ It's stupid. It's childish. It makes a mockery of you, and your art."

At this I burst out laughing, which makes him all the more angry, (and those lips all the more plump and pouty), because _I'm_ the one, after all, who said that we're artists, and not businessmen, and the realization of my hypocritical little bout of laughter just now – a reflexive, obnoxious, and indeed childish defense mechanism - embarrasses the shit out of me, which pisses me off further, and yet, because my emotions are _right_ at the surface and getting more and more mixed by the minute, instead of being mature about it – me, who doesn't wanna be treated like a kid - I snap and say something that is both stupid, and the exact opposite of what I'm thinking.

_"__Just don't expect me to fuck you later."_

And now it's his turn to be taken aback, laugh bitterly, and stare at me in disbelief for several beats with a look that screams, _"What in hell makes you think we're fucking later?"_ when, unless I'm crazy, what I hear out of that insanely pretty mouth, is:

_"__What in hell makes you think we're waiting til later?"_

So, okay, he_ didn't_ say that, it's just that … in the confusion of emotions and all the intense energy between us, mixed up at the same time with what I can't help but notice - how searingly, insanely hot he is when he's mad – sweet jesus, it's true - my hearing's apparently been re-routed through my dick, right?

Or … wrong? _Did_ he just say that?

No. Cuz, I mean … _we're in a recording studio_, for fuck's sake, with a full crew and his _wife_ right on the other side of that door, and plus … just this morning, didn't we both agree that pent up sexual frustration was good for the music?

And also … don't I still sorta wanna ring his fucking neck?

* * *

><p>Okay, … here he shoots me that evil look, the one I know well … followed by a hand grabbing me suddenly by the belt buckle, and jerking me bodily toward him.<p>

"This argument we're having," he says quietly, eyes roaming my face, "you _know_ I'm right, of course, but, just the same, just so we can get to the _bottom_ of things, shall we say," he continues, _"__why don't we_ _fuck it out?" _He points to the floor._ "__Right here."_

I laugh. _Ya, right!_

And then that same _instant_, my brain betrays me by immediately seizing on the startlingly filthy/gorgeous notion.

It's the ever present appeal of _things forbidden_. Of things risky and wrong and deliciously perverse - _things that are a bad idea_ - that you could get caught doing; that you could get into seriously deep shit for.

* * *

><p>The sensible, still hurt, still pissy, very flippant part of my brain, however, blurts it.<p>

_"__What the fuck makes you think I want to?" _

He smiles – a very slow, creeping smile - renews his grip on my belt, jerks me closer still, parts those lips and proceeds to give me what is perhaps the most seductive, come-hither look ever recorded, which, considering how Brian Slade can _look_ at you, is saying a whole fuck of a lot.

_"__You think I can't read you?"_ he says, all lippy and throaty, brazenly cupping my balls.

"_Quit_ it, Brian_,"_ I say, making exactly zero moves to stop him. "_Stop_ it."

He ignores me in the cruelest way: staring me in the face as he feels around down there.

"I'm _serious_," I say, sounding anything but.

_"__So am I,"_ he says, giving my dick the one thing in the world he knows it wants : a good, firm squeeze.

I grunt – it can't be helped – but half heartedly grab his hand and hear myself utter the most ridiculous, businessman sentence:

"This really isn't advisable."

"Oh, no?" he chortles under his breath, pulling away from my grasp and yanking down my zipper. "Says who?"

"Brian, _stop_ it – we're in the middle of -"

"-While we've booked this studio, we can do _whatever we want._ We're absolute _kings_ of it," he says all nonchalant, reaching in, pulling me out into the air, and squeezing further.

Oh Christ. _Why_ does such insanity – such wholly crazy, wildly ill advised shit - have to be so scaldingly hot? A second ago, wasn't I genuinely ready to kill him?

"_You_ are, maybe. " I say, voice shaking from a mix of fear-of-discovery, and edge-of-my-seat arousal. _"__I'm_ only here because my boyfriend—"

_"__-Husband!"_ he snaps, stopping dead and staring, open mouthed.

_"__Husband,"_ I respond dutifully, to which, without any warning at all … he drops to his motherfucking knees.

* * *

><p>My eyes drift in terror to the adjacent unlocked door. There's a crowd on the other side of it who have enormous power over me, any of whom could walk in at any moment …<p>

But like with yesterday in the limo – or at any time, really - neither Brian Slade, nor his mouth, are accustomed to the word 'no'. _And_ like with the limo, my focus is thusly divided between the fear of discovery, and the delicious, white hot possibility of it.

* * *

><p>My eyes slap shut.<p>

I wince, gasp, grab hold of the sound board with both hands, gulp, exhale, shudder, gasp/gulp, curse a blue streak, bust out in a sweat, and mumble incoherently.

Surely, in this entire world, there are few things more decadent than - in the middle of recording an album - making everyone wait while the world's number one rock god superstar sucks you to oblivion.

I mean, I guess it'll be faster this way, but sweet _Jesus_. He is apparently hell bent on deep throating my kidneys straight through my dick.

* * *

><p>Admittedly, as far as ways to settle an argument (though that is debatable) ... it ain't terrible.<p>

* * *

><p>As far as the power that anyone has over me ...<p>

Yes, I should have stopped him. I shouldn't have let it get this far ...

But we both knew I wouldn't.

The things that have driven me in my life, that have tapped deep into my marrow, that have _owned_ and _ruled _me above all others, have been drugs, music, and sex - in other words, my inner demons, my heart, and my dick.

Brian is the first person to come along who has simultaneously usurped and superseded all three, while also escalating, aggravating, provoking, and greatly intensifying the latter, to an almost painful daily degree.

Surely for his having given me my ass back, alone, I owe him my life. Which is maybe a form of power. But it's a power we have over each other.

Or maybe it's a power it - sex - has over _us_.

They say _we_ don't have sex, that sex has _us_, and I sure as fuck believe it.

* * *

><p>They also say time heals all wounds.<p>

I prefer to think it's the screwing.

* * *

><p>Speaking of which ... as my sorry, sorryass brain approaches dreamy floaty pre-orgasmo-land … suddenly, just like that, he stops. Which is good. He <em>did<em> say we should '_fuck it_ out', after all, so ...

* * *

><p>When I drag my lids open, however … instead of Brian splayed out over the sound board with his ass high in the air, the sight before me, rather, is him standing, facing me, grinning.<p>

A small grin. Not a sexy grin; but one I recognize: cocky, self satisfied; the signature bratty/victorious Brian Slade half smirk.

Even as I look down at him cruelly tucking me – all spit slick and stone hard – back inside my pants, my confused, lust-addled brain still doesn't get it.

* * *

><p>"<em>There<em>," he says, as he yanks up the zipper, pats it once, pulls out my shirttails and arranges them to conceal the painful, prominent lump.

"This morning, remember?" he says in a normal tone of voice to the flushed, panting, pathetic, bewildered ball of torturously frustrated energy before him who has almost just fallen off the planet, and so, no, does _not_ remember anything from this morning.

"We _agreed_," he explains. "For the good of the record - _sexual frustration. _Which I believe," he says with a shrug, "was _your_ idea."

* * *

><p>Before I can do or say a damned thing – as if I was at all capable - in the same breath, the bastard flips on the speaker to the outer room, and <em>yells<em> for everyone to immediately return.

"We're behind _schedule_, for fuck's sake," he barks impatiently, "but I predict we're about to _more_ than make up for it."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

Well, how 'bout that for a cliffhanger?

(And sorry about the long delay between chapters. Some, such as the last few, come flying out of me in a burst, and others, like this one, absolutely refuse, and torment you over dozens of re-writes and 5 straight fucking weeks of work. I've read and re-read and edited and poured over this one so many fucking times by now, I can't stand it anymore, so here it is. Hope it doesn't disappoint.)

There is apparently something about these boys holding off that appeals to me - so much of Ibiza was their desperate, ultimately/usually doomed attempts to_ not_ fuck - which was also Curt's idea! But this sort of takes the cake in the cruel, conniving department no? But think about it for a minute from Brian's perspective. When Curt's only response, instead of maybe admitting fault and/or apologizing (_not_ necessarily saying he should have! Any more than Brian should have, but remember Brian is in uptight perfectionist businessman mode here, so think of it from that perspective for a minute,) was to instead flippantly, preemptively reject Brian sexually (as if the topic was sex!) by saying "just don't expect me to fuck you later", Brian, who was already ripping mad, becomes incensed that sex is even mentioned (because, again, it's not even what they're talking about!), and then just has to seek 'revenge' and teach Curt a lesson. In the process, I like to think that Brian is ultimately - somewhere way in the very back of his mind - thinking about what is best for the album (after all, he is producing), and for Curt's career, and that ramping him up, so to speak, will hopefully light a fire under his ass, as Curt might say.

If Brian gets a little oral action in the process, he figures, so be it.

Of course, this may or may not work - it could totally backfire. (Sexual frustration along the lines of the harmless pillow incident back at Brian's house this same morning is one thing, to-the-brink "blueballs", perhaps entirely another. You'll have to stay tuned to see how it all pans out.)

I like the interplay and mixed up, hugely heightened emotions in this chapter, and that Curt cannot help but find Brian scorching hot when he's angry (even if that is a bit of a tired cliché). I like that he can't help and can actually "feel", even in the midst of a fight as bad as this, that the sex switch in his brain is getting flipped. I feel bad about all the pressure on Curt, too. He knows this is likely his one and only shot, and so his intentions are to absolutely do it to the hilt, it's just that, because of who he is, he goes about it in an entirely different way than Brian would. Mandy walking in in the middle of everything just adds to his discomfort and nerves, and then here is Brian seemingly not on his side during the argument.

(Also, think about the whirlwind Curt has experienced within the past year: he's gone from being a dead broke, nowhere, essentially homeless heroin addict dropped by his record company and managers, to being gang raped and suicidal, only to claw his way off heroin, fall head over heels in love with the world's most famous - and most desired (by both genders) - _married_ rock star with whom he engages in a very tumultuous, volatile, and extremely sexually charged relationship, whom he then marries, himself, and then here he is, signed to the "it" record label, _by_ the "it" manager, and cutting a record in the best studio in the world outfitted with the latest equipment and top end staff, _and_ about to embark on a world tour - this guy who has barely played outside of Detroit!)

Song wise, the three listed tunes are indeed actual songs (and lyrics) from Iggy's _Raw Power _recording, however unsurprisingly, "Cock In My Pocket" didn't make the album's final cut.

The bit where Curt is describing his band: "We are one super heavy, rip snortin', nitro- burnin', fuel-injected rock band that nobody in the world can touch. We could, generally speaking, eat any other band out there for breakfast," is pretty much a word for word direct quote of Iggy Pop's, describing his band, as taken from the liner notes from the 2010 re-release (and Iggy's horrendous, nearly ruinous remix) of _Raw Power_. (Why did you fuck with perfection, Iggy? Why?)

What Brian says to Curt through the glass is an approximation of what he says to him in the film - far as I recall, the sound engineer's name in the film was "Ian" who needed to be "properly prepared."

"Filthy/gorgeous" is a phrase I love, and the name of a 2004 Scissor Sisters hit song.

"_We_ don't _have _sex; sex has _us."_ Thanks, as always, Dan Savage.


End file.
